


Numbered Days

by violetnyte



Series: Through the Stars [2]
Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Angst, Codependency, Domestic Bliss, Love is hard, M/M, Marriage is harder, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, sadfeels, tags are impossible
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-09-20 03:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 56,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9472568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetnyte/pseuds/violetnyte
Summary: Sequel to Through the Stars. Being a survivor means figuring out how to live, one day at a time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally published as Through the Stars: Epilogue 2 (Chapter 46). However, it better fits as the first chapter to the sequel material, so I'm reposting it here. I'm not sure if that's allowed, but it's what I'm doing.
> 
> (Abel POV)

I’m standing in my swim trunks, miserably damp, tears hot on my cheeks, breath hitching, hysterical. Sirens wail and moan beyond the glass vestibule separating the pool from the hotel. I can see a short length of hallway, the hotel manager returning with a police escort to where she left two of the staff guarding the doors. The fire alarm whoops and shrieks, strobe lights flash with panic, I’m glad this is happening in style.

This is the third day of my honeymoon, the fourth day of my marriage, and the two hundred seventy-fifth day since Sacha came home. It’s the day I’ve been waiting for, it’s the counted-up disaster of too many beautiful days. I write them down as I count them, it’s a new habit, one I started when the days I counted were the ones Sacha spent away. Now I write them down to remember them, I started a fresh series of counts, now they’re days to look back on and smile, especially my favorites.

Of the days I’ve counted most are wonderful, some terrible. Everything started strained and awkward after living a year apart. Old habits I’d forgotten, new habits we both accumulated, things being different and the same, days being good and bad. All of it beautiful, I have loved every single counted day of this almost year of Sacha being back.

Such as day forty-three, the day Sacha yanked a clenched fist from his pocket and swung it at me. A ring box shot across the room, hit my tossed-up shield of an arm, bounced to the floor, his voice shouting, _Go fuck yourself, Ethan! Just go fuck yourself forever!_ Sacha kept staring white-faced at nothing, kept grimacing at me he was fine when he clearly wasn’t, I felt wretchedly nervous about us going out for dinner on a busy Saturday night, Valentine’s Day. I couldn’t stop asking if he was okay because he clearly wasn’t, he was clearly terrified and anxious.

I couldn’t believe he’d been planning a proposal, he’d been worked up over that, I started to laugh even though he looked miserable for yelling. He struggled down to one knee when he picked up the ring box anyway, asked me something with aching sincerity and sweetness. Said he’d put a lot of thought into it while away. Day forty-three is one of my favorites.

Day two hundred seventy-two is another good one, Friday at the courthouse. Sacha and I swapping signatures, rings, a kiss, I don’t know why I made Sacha wait that long for something so simple. He wanted to right away, soon as I said yes. Maybe I do know why, maybe it really wasn't the excuses I gave Sacha about my parents, my mom’s maniacal desire for wedding, not wanting the stress of all that right away, wanting to wait. Him always shrugging, scowling, mumbling, upset but trying to be understanding, not always managing it. There was two hundred fifty-one, the day we fought for the last time about setting the date, because a friend-of-a-friend at the movies saw the ring, asked, got Sacha scowling over it fresh. Stomped around the apartment yelling, both of us heated about it until he snapped, _If you don’t want to marry me then just fucking say it!_

I couldn’t argue with him after that, couldn’t make him wait any longer than three weeks I needed to make the arrangements. To hell with my mother, monogrammed everything, my father choking on his disapproval and hatred. I didn’t want a wedding, neither did Sacha, he just insisted on a tropical paradise honeymoon.

We spent the first full day here at the beach and the pool, I taught Sacha to float enough he won't drown swimming, it’s been perfect for exactly so many days, but I’ve been waiting for today. I’ve been waiting two hundred and seventy-five days for this one. I think I’m about to get arrested. I’ll have to write this down as the day I got arrested because of Cain.

I don’t know what to do now that the insistent hotel manager has a police officer with her. Quit, obviously, probably a good idea to stop resisting. I lift up my hands, catch sight of my wedding ring wedged firmly in place, feel a cold twist in my gut. “I’m sorry, wait -- “

Rain continues to beat against the glass overhead. The entire hotel pool is enclosed, heated and snug, Sacha hadn’t wanted to swim but was more than fine lounging in one of the deckchairs while I made lazy laps in the warm water. Day three of our honeymoon, four more days still left before our flight, one extra cozy Sunday at home alone before I’m back to work on Monday. We were in the mood for lazy and cozy, waking up to a rain-soaked cancellation of all our half-hearted plans. We talked about getting room service later. Now I’ll have to get it from jail.

“Sir, you need to leave the building,” the police officer says.

He sounds tired and wary, hopeful this will be quick, wants to be kind because he’s figured out I’m a wet sobbing mess. Only someone hysterical would refuse to leave a potentially burning building, although the manager’s already tried to assure me it was just a small kitchen fire that triggered the alarm. No actual emergency here except the one I know is unfolding.

The hotel manager starts to speak. She’s heard my plea enough times. “His husband --”

“He’s inside,” I say. “My husband --” only the first time I said it gave me a thrill, the first calm explanation I gave to try getting upstairs. “He went to our room -- on the eighteenth floor -- the elevators aren’t working -- he can’t use the stairs -- wouldn’t think to use them -- he might still be in the room --” This isn’t so much speaking as forcing words out around sobs, I realize.

I don’t want to think about the jolted, jarring terror I felt coming out from a fresh dive. One moment underwater tranquility, the next surfacing to this unfolding disaster. Alarms blaring, hotel guests laughing and groaning, no one all that scared because nothing all that awful ever happened to them. Fire alarms just mean having to stop the fun, having to rush around in the rain, the hotel staff apologizing to everyone for the inconvenience.

And then me, wide-eyed, scrambling out of the pool and running opposite everyone else, running inside for the elevators. Elevators which, in a fire, helpfully stop operating. I learned that from the hotel manager, before we reached the point where she locked me into this vestibule to keep me from finding the stairwell, keep me from running around the burning building screaming for Sacha.

The building’s not even on fire, I know that. It doesn’t need to be, just the strobe-light flash and wail of the alarms is enough. I never should have let Sacha out of my sight. He made sure to come find me in the pool, said he was going up to the room, wanted to get the book I had on the plane, figure he’d give reading it a shot while I swam. Not a big deal, but leaving our phones and wallets in the beach tote tucked under the deckchair, took just his hotel key with him, two hundred and seventy-fifth days since he came home, enough so I nearly forgot what being this scared felt like.

Fresh tears pour out of me, I can’t stop thinking of Sacha alone in our room, the alarm screaming, he’s been so good about everything that it’s been too good to be true. Two hundred seventy-five perfect, beautiful days, surely this is the one to ruin it all. I don’t see any other alternative. This kind of thing, this kind of unmitigated disaster, it’s too much for Sacha. It’s too much for me.

The police officer’s murmuring into his radio. He doesn’t seem immediately ready to arrest me. I only ever got truly hysteric when they stuck me out here, kept trying to get me leave through the fire exit. The front desk clerk dared to take my arm and guide me. I went from face-in-hands weeping to sudden shrieking panic. I’m not sure I want to remember the rest.

The fire alarm stops ringing, I can hear my own shaky breathing now. I brush at my wet cheeks. It’s quiet enough that I hear the chatter back on the police officer’s radio, just the final tail end of someone acknowledging him.

“Are they clearing people to re-enter the building?” A bit scratchy, I was screaming earlier. I offer, “I don’t need the elevators turned back on or anything, I’ll take the stairs.” Good, my voice sounds entirely steady now.

Everyone kind of looks at me, I try my best to look rational, calm. I’m not hysterical anymore, I understand that sobbing and panicking isn’t helpful to anyone. The police officer says, “Let’s go outside.”

“I’d like to go back to my room,” I say. “I need to find my husband.”

The police officer’s balding, forty-something, probably has a wife and kids at home. He’s trying to sound sympathetic, “Firefighters are going to check your hotel room, they’ll assist your husband.”

The police officer thinks this will reassure me. He says it in such a reassuring way. Same way the hotel manager thought to talk about the handicap-accessible rooms on the first floor, asked if I’d like to switch after this is over, that was at the start of the conversation before I lost the ability to be calm about this.

But I’m calm now, I’m calm again, I don’t want a first-floor room because our current room overlooks the beach, ocean, it’s a beautiful private balcony view, I didn’t realize the elevators wouldn’t work in a fire because who ever thinks of that? Who ever thinks their perfect tropical paradise honeymoon is going to catch fire, go up in smoke, turn into shrieking alarms and strangers?

The police officer tells me we’ll wait outside, the firefighters are headed upstairs to find Sacha, but I need to explain all the reasons why that’s the worst possible solution. Sacha will want me, he’ll want Abel, I’m going to get dragged kicking and screaming from this hotel insisting that I’m Abel, that Cain needs Abel, they have to let me go find Cain.

But I don’t explain anything, I don’t start shrieking. The alarm’s stopped, there isn’t a fire, I’m staring at this police officer and realizing I’m about to get arrested so it’s all very sobering. I suddenly feel very calm. I’m abruptly quite scared.

This is my last warning. He’s got a hand at his side, he’s about to get restraints. “Sir, you need come outside with me.”

“Okay. Okay,” I agree. “Okay.”

Everyone moves kind of a cautious about it, like I’m going to take off running or worse. Doors get unlocked, the hotel staff scurries aside, the police officer looks ready to tackle me. I try not to stare at the gun holster on his belt. I get escorted down the hall, past the stairwell doors, past the elevators, through the lobby, out to the front where rain beats off the pavement.

Rain dribbles off the edges of the hotel’s covered curving drive, rain puddles over the grass, against the curb. Hotel guests have scattered, into their cars or surrounding businesses, the restaurants and shops. Faces peer from under covered awnings, clusters of laughing vacationers try to stay dry. Firetrucks, cop cars, and even one ambulance crowd for space near the doors.

The police officer is guiding me somewhere specific. His car, I think, and I hope I’m not getting arrested. He walks me alongside one of the fire engines, gestures as he explains exactly what I assumed about waiting in his car. He wants to keep an eye on me, possibly still plans to arrest me. We cut around the corner of the truck.

“Ethan?” Shocked, soft, unsure and then louder as my head turns -- “Ethan!”

Sacha’s sitting in the back of the ambulance, blanket around his shoulders. He’s just as I saw him last, blue-patterned swim trunks, bright turquoise-rimmed sunglasses perched on his head, bare-chested except steel dog tags, flip-flops on his feet. A firefighter and paramedic both with him, their stances loose and casual, seems like they must have been chatting a moment ago, now everyone’s curious, concerned, heads turning.

My escort pauses, stops entirely. I nearly run from the police, I nearly burst forward everything instead of just my voice. “Sacha!”

We’re not that far apart, maybe twenty feet, there’s not a lot of room under the drive and no one wants to get soaked in the rain for this non-emergency situation so all the emergency vehicles are wedged close together. I’d run to Sacha, but I think if I dart away from this cop I’ll be put on the ground for resisting arrest.

Sacha’s already getting down from the ambulance, his bad leg going jittery, the paramedic offers him an arm to use and Sacha nods gratefully, takes it. He’s completely fine. White-faced, anxious, grimacing and tense, but Sacha knows where he is, what’s happening, who he is and who these people are. Everyone on his side of things is trying to help and he’s letting them, he’s fine with that. Sacha’s fine.

Everyone on my side of things, especially this officer, is waiting for me to freak out again. I’m ready to, I don’t blame them. I’ve started shaking I’m so relieved. I might be whimpering.

“Oh, that’s -- that’s my husband,” I hastily tell the police officer. “That’s him, that’s him, he’s --”

Sacha’s flip-flops snap off the pavement as he comes closer. “What the hell, Ethan? Where have you...?”

He sees how serious the police officer looks, how wide-eyed I am. He slows, stops. Starts to look unsure of things, the tight relieved smile falls from his face. He left behind the blanket, I wonder why he was in the ambulance but no one seems concerned about that, least of all Sacha. Everyone's concerned about me.

I bite my lip against the urge to laugh at the perplexed exasperation on Sacha’s face. He looks from me to the hotel doors and then the officer, quickly and calculating. He’s putting it together, starting to get upset. Realizing what must have happened, how I must have reacted. I feel a bit hysteric still, realize there are tears clogging up my vision, everything wet even though we’re under the dry covered driveway.

“This is your husband?” the police officer asks.

Sacha says tersely, “Yes, sir.”

I can’t help it. I start to giggle. I have to press my face into my hands quickly, weep and sob all over again even though I’m trying to laugh. I’m happy, really, I’ve never been so happy to be so utterly wrong. I don’t even care if I get arrested. There can’t be much jail time involved with being a hysterical mess.

The paramedic and firefighter come over, they’re on a first-name basis with Sacha. He’s been out here the whole time waiting, he was on the ground floor heading back to the pool -- close to an exit, he jokes to the cop that he was the first one out and looks tense saying it, probably means it’s nearly true.

It’s all a bit overwhelming. Sacha’s calmly explaining this to the cop, he’s already explained it to the firefighter he’s with, the paramedics, he’s apologizing for us both, those poor firefighters probably already searching our empty room. I think people are starting to smile, everyone wants to be sympathetic to a set of honeymooners and Sacha is shameless about reminding people. He has this under control. He’s had it under control from the start.

The hotel manager goes to get the beach tote with our wallets, phones, my flip-flops, our shirts, his medication, all those important things I forgot. Sacha explains what it looks like, where he left it under the deckchair. I’ve stopped crying, Sacha’s got his arm and the blanket around me, the paramedic brought it over for us. I’m quiet, letting him lean on me a little to help with his leg, or maybe he’s letting me lean into him.

“For fuck’s sake, Ethan,” he mutters. His hand rubs into my shoulder. “There wasn’t even a fire.”

“There was a small one. In the kitchen, the manager told me.”

I’m looking at the ground, my voice a wet mumble, he’s looking at whatever’s not me, we haven’t had a for-serious fight since day two-five-one, the fight over setting the date. I’ll write this down as the fight over the fire. Maybe I’ll get to laugh about it later.

I can feel the tension in Sacha, the stiff set of his back, the hard line of his arm around me. He knows exactly why I panicked. He knows what happened. I don’t think I’ll laugh about this day later.

I press my cheek into Sacha’s shoulder, feel the cold tickle of the dog tags against my arm. I huddle to his chest because he lets me, puts me there with the clutch of his arm. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything, huffs an angry, dismissive sound at me. The hotel manager returns with our things, Sacha thanks her. It won’t be long to reset the alarms, clear the building, let everyone back inside. The paramedic offers to let Sacha wait in the ambulance again. Everyone’s being nice to Sacha. He’s the sane one, this calm, apologetic fighter with a scatterbrained, frantic navigator who can’t handle sudden flashing alarms.

I wonder what he would have done, if I’d come out in restraints. Probably find a lawyer, call my mother, maybe try his rough-edged charms on the judge like he has the cop and hotel manager. Sacha did all the right things, continues to do them, he limps back to the offered ambulance, gets to take me with him. I get in first and then help Sacha up the awkward step. Surreal calm follows in the way Sacha tucks me against him. The front half of the ambulance sticks out into the rain, I can hear the water beating over the roof.

They’ve hauled out the stretcher, left an open rectangle of space lined by the padded bench. Sacha has me sitting between him and the open doors, that’s probably intentional. The squared off view shows the hotel manager talking with the police, shaking her head. I'll leave them a good review for not pressing charges. I don’t think I broke anything, hurt anyone, just a lot of crying and hitting my hands on the glass, rattling the latch, refusing to listen.

I brush at my cheeks, sniffle, feel Sacha’s lips turn into my hair. I think he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. He sighs instead, lets me go, digs our shirts from the beach tote. He presses my shirt at me, slips into his own. The dog tags disappear under the cotton fabric, he adjusts the sunglasses through his hair.

Sacha reaches into the tote, fishes up the pill bottle and pops two at once, neat and dry, perfunctory like when he drinks whisky. He taps out a third and fourth, I’m not going to say anything because he doesn’t have enough in whole bottle for it to be too many, but our eyes meet. He knows I’m watching, counting. The bottle goes back into the tote, tossed with a hard rattle. I’m not going to say anything, it’s a four-at-once situation if anything is, even if that's a bit too much.

He’s furious, miserable, terrified, struggling not to show any of it. His gaze crawls along the wall of the ambulance, glances over the multitude of cabinets and equipment. His bad leg twitches, shakes, all of him is trembling. I don’t think he likes the back of the ambulance. I don’t think he likes any of this, really, he’s white-faced and nervous, flinching when someone slams a car door too near. But he knows precisely what’s happening, nothing lost, all of him anchored into this moment.

I can’t look at Sacha anymore, but I can’t look away either. I watch him from the corner of my eye, same way he’s keeping track of me. We’re still sharing the blanket, huddled close, Sacha’s arm around my shoulders. His fingers dig bruises. He glares up at the ceiling, leans to look out the doors. He’s keeping focused, alert and aware, he’s terrified but calm. He’s being perfect, for the two hundred seventy-fifth day in a row.

My stomach sinks. I’m starting to feel horrified, embarrassed, deeply ashamed. I should have stayed calm. I could have gotten out of the pool, collected our things, peacefully exited the building. I had access to Sacha’s phone, his medicine, things he needed. He had nothing except the room key, his flip-flops and sunglasses, swim trunks, the dog tags, just what he was wearing, nothing else. He got himself outside, didn’t panic, maybe panicked anyway but at least didn’t freak out like I did.

“I’m sorry. Sacha, I’m so sorry.”

His shoulder lifts. His gaze cuts past me to the open ambulance doors. Everyone’s given us some space, I can see the paramedic wander past, glance over with a smile, a nod that Sacha returns. We’ll be a cute story later I’m sure.

“I get it.” Sacha doesn’t look at me, his eyes roam the inside of the ambulance. Slow, careful, the words sounding forced. “It’s fine, Ethan. I get it. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. You’re upset.”

“Yup.” His leg shivers, he shivers, Sacha glances at the doors again. Rain bounces and bangs off the roof. “Kind of don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Oh.” I look out the open doors as well. My mind goes blank suddenly. All topics that aren’t this moment vanish. I can’t focus on anything else. I have no idea what to say.

His gaze flicks to me. I see him grimace, swallow, he has to look away. He hates seeing me scared like this, hates seeing me cry. I hastily wipe at my face.

Voice shaky like his leg, white showing all around the blown-out dark of his eyes. “Mike’s got a wife and two kids. They’ve been married seven years, their oldest has been six since June. Do the math on that. They didn’t waste any time, huh? Might’ve been a shotgun wedding.”

I’m not sure the questioning noise I make is an actual word.

“Mike’s the firefighter. I started talking to him while waiting on Lee and Ricardo to show up.” His shoulder rolls to gesture. He must mean the paramedics. “Whole fucking lot of fuss considering I just asked for somewhere quiet to sit, but they were good sports about it.”

I need to say something. Sacha wants to talk sometimes when he gets nervous, he wants something to focus on, he needs something to do and right now all he has is talking to me and trying to get comfortable while he waits.

“Oh. Um, did -- you? Okay.”

I can’t contribute anything useful. It’s a miracle I’m not trying to apologize again or start crying. I can’t look at Sacha for this -- looking at my hands isn’t any easier. I press my thumb into my ring, worry at it with my other hand. My fingers turn the metal, slide it around my skin, press and press to knead and work the flesh and bone surrounding the band.

He sighs. Heavy, resigned, his voice cool as the gold loop in my frozen hands. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” I hunch my shoulders. I rub my face, sniffle. Wet and miserable, all the sorrier for having to admit it. “No.”

He bullies me closer, pulls me into his chest. His lips press into my hair. Only his thigh is shaking now, the bad leg as stubborn as he is. “You know when I told Mike you were probably freaking out I didn’t realize I’d be this right about it.” The words are rough edged, burred and frayed into a softness that crushes my chest with bittersweet ache.

I close my eyes, press my face into his neck. I might cry again, I hope I don’t. It’s not helping. I whisper, thin and miserable. “Sorry.” Apologies aren’t helping either. I’m being exceedingly not helpful.

Sacha cups the back of my neck, strokes my hair. “Nah. Rest of my life I get to remind you of the time I kept my shit together and you spazzed so hard you nearly got arrested. I can’t wait to tell Beth. You’re never hearing the end of this, sweetheart.”

“You’re horrible,” I choke. It’s a laugh and sob at once.

“Yup. And you love it.” He’s the brief glimpse of a close-up smirk, a tipped together kiss, warm steady hands cupping my face. His thumbs edge away moisture, it’s a tender reprimand, a gentle plea. I really do feel calm when he stops, strokes my hair until I smile.

I rest my head on his shoulder, he takes hold of my hand. I look across at the medical equipment. “What do you think that machine does?”

“The blue one?” he asks. I hum softly to affirm. “Dunno, looks important.”

“Yeah, it does. It’s neat how they can fit so much back here,” I say. “It really is like a tiny hospital on wheels.”

His hand runs over my arm. “Yeah. It kinda is.”

We talk about the labeled compartments, the other medical equipment, Mike the firefighter’s two kids, what we might do once it stops raining, how we’ll order room service later. I talk to Sacha about anything besides flashing alarms and shrieking navigators. I lean into him, so he leans into me, and eventually his bad leg stops trembling. He gets quiet, just wants to listen to me instead of talk. His head finds my shoulder. He'll be asleep soon.

Fortunately it’s not long before we’re let back into the building. Sacha returns the blanket, thanks the firefighter and paramedic, everyone’s being nice to bleary-eyed, woozy Sacha. I can’t look at anyone, can’t say anything. Especially not to the hotel staff, once we get inside and stand there to wait for the elevator. I might hide in the room the rest of the trip. I might ask Sacha what he thinks about switching hotels. Switching islands, maybe.

I take a shower, wash the chlorine from my hair, take the time to blow-dry it afterward with the bathroom door closed to block the noise. I come out find Sacha in bed, television on, room a dim glow, drapes closed across the walk-out balcony, that lovely beach view. I want to ask Sacha how long he thinks it would take him to get down the stairs. Probably not that much longer than it would take me. He does well with his leg, with everything. He’s not helpless, I know that.

Earlier I should have just walked outside, found Sacha, sat with him somewhere, stayed with him, been with him -- been there for him like he needed. Instead he had to ask strangers for help, had to sit around wondering where I was on top of everything else.

His eyes are already closed, expression slacked, he’s sprawled with space and pillows left open for me. I can't tell if he started off watching television or just put it in for aimless background something.

“Taking a nap?” I whisper in case he’s out already.

“Mmhm.” He’s good as sleeping. Now I would be in trouble getting him out if there was a fire, bad leg or no. After four-at-once that’s no surprise.

I slide into the bed, nudge under Sacha’s offered arm. I rest my cheek into his shoulder. He stirs heavily to get comfortable, becomes even heavier. I listen to the rain outside, the wind sweeping it onto the balcony, the soft background murmur of the television -- and beneath me, Sacha’s slow steady heartbeat, his long even breaths. I tell myself I won't write anything down for today, I decide I’m done keeping count of the days since Sacha came home, that I’m going to stop waiting for Cain.

Eventually I play the TV too loud, get mumbled responses from Sacha until he’s upright, eyes open, asking me questions about the movie even though it’s the third act already, he needs to have been paying attention from the start. He wakes up with a headache, we stay in bed even when the rain stops, order room service, don’t leave the room the rest of the day, don’t care since it was going to be a lazy, cozy day anyway.

It’s not a day we fight about how I still can’t trust him, how I can’t stop thinking everything going to go up in flames. I guess he’s not too upset at me for thinking it in a four-at-once situation. That night while Sacha’s brushing his teeth, I write it down, tell myself I'll want to look back and laugh someday. _275 -- false alarm fire scared me worse than him._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally published as Through the Stars: Epilogue 3 (Chapter 47) however it best fits here with the rest of the sequel material, so I'm reposting it for that purpose.
> 
> (Cain POV)

I fucking hate being right. Never thought I’d feel that way, can’t believe I actually miss being wrong, shit-eating smug grin isn’t fun anymore when Ethan looks ready to cry. I told him he’d never hear the end of it, but I was lying. I’m not saying shit about what happened. I don’t plan to, don’t know what the fuck I’ll say. We have more experience with this being flipped around. We’d both be handling this better if I’d been wrong, he’d been right.

No, that’s pretty fucking stupid, that’s just about the stupidest thought I’ve had in awhile, and it’s the one Ethan catches me having when he decides to get my attention.

“Sacha?”

Tentative smile, eyes bright, face wavering close to getting wet again because my dumb fucking navigator is stuck in a sad guilt-loop I’m not sure I can break him out of.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks. Fucking anxious about it, that way he gets when he catches me staring without actually looking at anything.

This is what I get for swallowing a handful of sedatives that smeared yesterday into grey blur, don’t really remember much after sitting in the ambulance with Ethan. I’ll have to tell Beth the good news first before admitting she was right about four being too many. I want to see if I surprise her with the good news, though, I’ve already started thinking of the most dramatic way to explain it. I think I’ll open with _hotel caught fire_ and just see where things go from there.

Ethan’s still waiting on an answer. I could lie, say I was thinking about Essem missing me or something stupid like that. I could say I was thinking about nothing, if I really wanted to make him cry. I could point out something over his shoulder, make a snide comment about continental breakfast, don’t even know what the fuck that means but I bet he does. Bet he’d explain what makes it continental as opposed to regular breakfast if I asked. I got lots of options to get him off my fucking back about being tired and bleary-eyed. I think I earned myself some unquestioned being wrong on easy things, after doing so much hard shit right.

Anything other than honesty’s just going to make him worse, even if the honest answer’s going to do it just the same. I wasted time thinking about it. Thanks to the whole reason he’s asking in the first place, it already took me too damn long to respond. Looking at his anxious expression I realize there’s no right answer, I’m totally fucked.

“I was thinking about yesterday.”

“Oh.”

Absolutely does not make me happier to be right about this either, Ethan’s expression upside-down sideways with worry. He gets small in his chair, flashes me a meek, apologetic smile. I see him glance aside, scope out the hotel staff. I think if that curly-haired manager shows back up my scared, skittish navigator might crawl under the table to hide. Probably start bawling, take all the fun out having him on his knees between mine.

My fingers roll over the table. His gaze flicks to the motion. He knows I’m over here thinking about yesterday and getting upset. No secret what happened, why it happened.

I force a tight smile. Not going to fight with Ethan on our honeymoon, goddammit, I did not spend months and months looking forward to this only to have something fuck it up. I’m not going to say anything else about yesterday, bad enough I'm sitting here thinking about it. We’ll focus on today.

“What’d you want to do?” I ask.

Ethan likes making plans. Fucking loves it, gets him wet to start pulling out guidebooks and talk excitedly about crap we both know we’re not going to go do. I might not be a total stick in the mud anymore, but I’m sure as fuck not going to hike to the top of any mountains to look at a bunch of water go over some rocks. I’ll go stick my hand in the shower spray if Ethan wants to see water get everywhere.

His turn to answer, I’m waiting on him to say something. He looks blank, has no fucking idea what I want from him.

“Ethan? I asked what you wanted to do today.”

“Oh.” Still blank, but he knows he’s suppose to respond.

Goddamn do I need him to stop saying _oh_ in that _oh I’m about to cry_ way that he’s been doing all morning. I know yesterday sucked. I know I woke us both up in the middle of the night with a bunch of bullshit. I know I’m not doing great today. I fucking know exactly how much I’m not doing that great right now, but I want to try anyway. I need my fucking navigator to get his head in the game, but I can't get mad at him for it. My poor fucking navigator is spiraling out on me, looping around in guilty circles over something I'm not even mad at him for.

I look beyond his sad sorry face for a moment, look past him to the pretty breakfast buffet, the big gorgeous windows. Fucking sunshine and rainbows outside, don't know why he has to look so miserable.

“It stopped raining. We could go to the beach.”

“Oh… Yeah, we could.”

Three whole extra words this time, but they just push him closer to the edge. Fuck. If he starts crying I can’t do this. I’m leaving. I start eyeing the exits, start planning my escape.

I think a little more carefully about what I just said, how he’s reacted. Not the beach, then. It’ll stress him out trying to keep track of me if I get in the water, he knows I’m shit at swimming still even if I’m not stupid enough to go wandering out into the ocean. Maybe he thinks there’s sharks in the fucking water, I don’t know, I just know the beach is out. Not doing that today.

Really I don’t think he’d be happy if we went anywhere with people, a crowd, anywhere too open where it’s hard for him to keep an eye on me. It needs to be inside, needs to be somewhere contained. I can’t sit in our room all day, I didn’t come all this way to just fucking sit in a room, I can do that at home. Ethan’s not going to want to hang around the hotel lounge, definitely can’t take him to the pool, actually the whole hotel’s making him look nervous. I’m not sure what he’ll do if he has to meet back up with that curly-haired manager, and I don’t want to find out either. I’ve got to get him out of the hotel.

“Let’s go see a movie.” Suddenly, too sudden, I make him flinch with it. I lower my voice, grimace what I hope to fuck is a nice smile. “There’s a theater around, right? Let’s do that. Let’s watch a movie.”

Movie theater’s a good one, cozy, relaxing, I’ll let him lean into my shoulder, I’ll put my arm around him, he’ll like that. Real easy to keep an eye on me if I’m right next to him, and he likes watching movies. Not too many ways in and out of a theater, either, he can pick a spot to watch all of them in case I go for one. Brilliant.

“Oh. Yeah...”

Fuck him, it was a good idea so why’s he looking miserable? Jaw clenching, snarling, trying real fucking hard to sound nice and not quite managing it. “We can do something else.”

“No,” he says softly. Eyes down, poking at his food. “Movie sounds fine. Fun. It sounds fun. Let’s go watch a movie.”

Says it like I’m offering instead to beat the shit out of him for a couple hours, which is how I know Ethan’s just dying to talk about yesterday. He loves that kind of shit, loves getting to fuss and apologize and be fucking miserable.

Seriously might have been easier if I’d been wrong. That’s about the worst thought I could be having. I don’t want to ask Ethan what he thinks, if he wishes he’d been right and I’d been wrong. Probably not. Seriously can’t imagine a world where Ethan would be happier for me being the one to get dragged out by the cops, him being the one waiting in the ambulance making nervous-nice with a bunch of fucking strangers while scared out of his goddamn mind.

Doesn’t matter that I already told him it was fine, I get it, I know why yesterday became such a fucking disaster even though I did everything right. I know he doesn’t trust me. Don’t blame him at all for it, told him from the get-go that was fine. He’s smart not to trust me, and I’m not out to make him start. Safer for us both if he doesn’t trust me, sucks it’s that way, but I get it. He can’t trust me. Guess him pretending sometimes might be nice, even if he knows it’s only a matter of time until I fuck this up. He should at least let me try to do this before he decides I can’t. I need him to help me get things lined up so I can take the shot. He’ll never know how good a fighter I can be for him if he won’t let me try.

Stupid fucking navigator. Lost his fucking head over a fire alarm, wasn’t even a real fire.

“Sacha?”

Quiet, scared, desperate like he doesn’t think I’m going to respond. Shit. He definitely caught me that time, I zoned out hard on him, no idea what I was looking at or how I looked, no fucking idea what I was doing besides getting lost in my own head.

I shift, try to be subtle about how I fast I stick a hand down the front of my pants, how frantic the gesture gets when my pocket’s empty. I left my medicine up in the room. I remember seeing it next to the sink, I left it there without thinking.

Fuck.

Okay.

Okay, that’s fine. Fine, took too many yesterday all at once anyway. Beth’s not going to like that, but I’ll gloss it over with the good news, about the fire. I kept my shit together for that, and this is just fucking breakfast. Continental or not, I can handle breakfast without losing my shit. This is fine.

“...Sacha?”

He looks ready to call me Cain, he’s ready to sob, run, hide, scream -- I’ll throw this whole fucking table to the floor if he does. I’ll show him what resisting arrest really looks like, really set this hotel on fire for him, set this whole goddamn vacation on fire. I’ll fuck this up, if he wants to see me fuck this up, because we both know exactly how capable I am of doing just that. I am making him live each day terrified of the one where I fuck this up.

I straighten some, pull myself together. I can do this. I can be nice to this dumb fucking navigator I’ve roped into spending the rest of his life with me. I can at least manage one fucking nice week for him before I make the rest of his life shit.

“Yeah. Yeah, Ethan, fine. I’m fine.” I flash him a tight, terse smile, make an effort to speak slower, nicer, less irritated and nervous. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

I can get through this fucking awkward as shit breakfast. I took down a fire yesterday, breakfast is a fucking cakewalk. I’ve done enough awkward meals with Ethan to handle this one. I force myself to focus on the ridiculous fucking minutiae of taking the next bite, exactly how I have to pick up the fork, press the stupid flat tines into the pastry so it’s nice, polite.

I should have told Ethan I wanted a road trip with dive bars and shitty motels rather than this fine china-twinkling resort we’re stuck in for the rest of the week. Just a fan-fucking-tastic set of walls and doors I’ve found for myself, even comes with a pretty balcony view. I’m chewing this pastry like I could kill it somehow, rip it the fuck apart with my teeth. I want to hit someone, something, fuck this so much. I hate the days when just eating breakfast is a fight.

Ethan watches me without seeming like it, worried and scared, poking his breakfast. He’s going to cry, with or without me being nice about it, he’s going to get scared and cry even if I do the right things. He glances up, big blue eyes gone liquid. Shit. He’s already started.

I push my chair back, stagger, nearly knock over my water, holy shit calm down. I get untangled from the chair and get upright, clutch shaking hands into the back of it for balance. “Going to the room.”

Not asking it, telling him, I need to get the fuck out of here. Immediately, his presence not required nor especially wanted, do not stop me or ask stupid questions, I am leaving.

His eyes widen some. He’s not being so scatterbrained this morning he doesn’t know what’s happening, what that tone means. He sits there pretty lips trembling, lashes quivering, three seconds away from sobbing. Has the fucking gall to look me right in the eye and whimper, “Oh.”

I can’t fucking look at him anymore. I can’t be nice to him, if he’s going to fucking cry. He needs to snap the fuck out of this guilt-loop, cut himself some slack, I’m not pissed that he fucked up. I did all the right things, I handled it, it sucked, but I did it. He doesn’t need to be sad and scared anymore. He doesn’t have to cry.

Shaking, chest tight, I need to leave -- right now, right the fuck now.

I hear him say something, hear him call my name after me, sounds frantic even though I just told him where I was going, always make sure to say where I’m going if I can. Put a fucking ring on him, put one on me, put his goddamn contact info around my neck to wear all the time, he doesn’t need to be scared.

Probably doesn’t make him feel any better, seeing me run off like this, but fuck him. I can’t do this right now. I can’t be nice to him. I can’t fucking do the first awkward cry-over-breakfast shitty day of our marriage, I’m not even out of the easy fun honeymoon part yet. 

I get in the elevator, punch the button. Nothing to do but wait, got myself nice and trapped in a square box, nothing to do, hardly anything to look at, nowhere to go, can’t even fucking pace, fuck. I grip my fingers into my hair, know I’m freaking out, doesn't fucking help to know I'm freaking out, need to stop, I’m alone in this small fucking box, can’t fucking breathe, try anyway, think about the floorplan of the apartment, try to remember exact details, colors, try to fucking focus, doesn’t fucking work, holy shit I am really freaking out, try something else, get help.

Get my phone, look at the time, do math, wince, probably not awake. Stare down at my shaking phone, hands shaking, fuck me, fuck this, fuck timezones, oh my God help me. 

Shit, fuck, okay. Focus. Fuck it time. Time to fuck this, I’m out, three-at-once time, bad day, tell Beth about it later just fuck it for now -- I juggle my phone into my other hand, let it fall straight to the fucking floor, don't care, dig into my front pocket and realize the pills are in the room. Fuck. Fuck, no, I knew that -- that’s why I’m in this elevator.

Holy shit I’m a mess, where’s my phone.

I snatch the phone up off the elevator floor, attack the fucking thing, start the call anyway, fuck timezones. Fuck he better be awake. Listen, heart pounding.  

Third ring, more like a protest than answering. “...nnn.” 

“Hey, Aleks.”

“Nnnm?” Still not awake.

“How’s the house? How’s the cat? Stupid motherfucker giving you any trouble?”

Long pause, the silent sound of him figuring out just what the fuck’s happening, why the hell I’m calling at a weird hour asking him dumb questions.

“Cat’s fine.” 

“That’s good. Anything interesting happen?”

“Drank the last of the milk.”

“You or Essem?”

“Me.”

“Oh, good. It was going to expire.”

“Yeah.”

I watch the floor numbers get bigger, listen to Aleks not know what else to say. Sometimes I have no fucking idea why he even bothers. 

“I guess that’s it.”

“Sure." He sounds relieved. "See you Saturday?”

He’s questioning this, like I’m going to announce Ethan and I decided to stay in the tropics. Bought ourselves a straw shack under a fucking waterfall. Or maybe he’s just trying to ask if I’m okay without actually asking me, because it isn’t that often I’m desperate enough to bully him into answering the phone. I know he hates it. Idiot doesn’t have to keep answering if he hates it.

“Yup. Coming back Saturday.”

“Okay."

We hang up, or rather I hang up. He’d probably stay there giving me bullshit responses until my phone battery died, but the elevator’s stopped, I’ve got stuff to do now besides annoy Aleks. I limp down the hall to the room, get there, realize I left my fucking room key on the breakfast table.

I say it aloud, sharp and distinct. “Goddammit.”

I even remember putting it down, thinking to myself it should go in my pocket, forgot about it almost immediately. I wonder if that’s what Ethan was trying to tell me, sounding so frantic, when I ran off on him. At least I have my phone on me. I put a hand to my chest, feel through my shirt to the stamped metal and chain of my dog tags, get a hard fist of fabric around the steel. I ran off without thinking, needed to leave so bad I got myself lost.

I stand there, staring at the locked door, holding the dog tags through my shirt. This going to be so fucking awkward when Ethan shows up looking for me. Worse if I try to doubleback now, because the last fucking thing I need is to be somewhere else when Ethan thinks I’ll be here.

I get leaned into the wall, press my shoulders into it, use the wall for leverage to make sliding down to the floor easier. I keep one leg curled to my chest, let the fucked up one do its own thing. I thumb into my contacts, force myself to scroll past Abel, Aleks, Beth -- I start the call, put my phone back to my ear.

“Hello?” He answers on the first ring, sounds braced for anything and everything. He’s the one I usually annoy all the time at weird hours asking dumb questions. He knows to expect this crap from me.

“Hey. I forgot my key.”

“I know, I have it. It’s on the table.”

His voice is soft, controlled. The way I bolted out of there like the room had caught fire must’ve slapped sense into him. I’d take the fire again over this shit. Awkward breakfasts are the worst, means the whole day's fucked if I can’t keep it together.

“Are you busy?”

Even though it’s a dumbshit question, he’s nice and gentle about answering. “No, I’m not busy.”

I close my eyes, grit my teeth. I’m going to be nice back to him if it kills me. “Can you bring it to me?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll head your way?”

“Yeah. I’m in the hall.”

We hang up, or rather I hang up. Definitely know Ethan would keep the call going forever, bet he’d love having an instant way to ping me at all times. I should have told the shrinks just to cut a fucking hole in my head, give Ethan a scoop and let him go to town finding the answers he wants. _What are you thinking? Where are you going? What are you doing? Where are you? Who are you with? Where have you been? What happened? Are you okay? Are you sure you’re okay? Are you absolutely sure you’re okay or is this the day you break my heart and leave me?_

I thunk my head into the wall. Stare across at the bland arrangement of tastefully off-white walls and trim, maroon and navy carpet, boring, fuck this hotel. Fuck this hotel, fuck this trip, fuck trying to relax, fuck making Ethan happy, fuck pills that steal time from me and turn me useless, fuck feeling scared and weak, fuck working so fucking hard at this all the goddamn time I can’t believe I forgot the fucking key on the table, shit!

Ethan finds me like that. Sitting on the floor, forehead into my knee, bad leg twitching, all of me tense and shaking, breath tight, cold sweat, panicked and hating it. I thought I’d be in the fucking room for this at least, not stuck out in the hall.

I hear his footsteps, hear the way he starts walking quicker as he gets nearer, knows I’m not sitting out here for the fun of it. I hear him beep the key against the lock, the door opens, I don’t hear him say one word about the fact I’m out here in the hall freaking out. It’s nothing unusual, I do this all the time at home, this is me being wrong and him being right like always. This is our normal. The door closes, the latch clatters shut, it’s quiet.

I hear him come back out a few minutes later, comes over to stand next to me, crouch down next to me with what he has in his hands. Fucking never letting Ethan pick the hotel again, he found some goddamn fancy saucer to hold two round little pills. Glass of water and my room key go right next to the tiny plate. He is just un-fucking-real sometimes. He straightens, turns to leave.

I call him back. “Hey.”

His sandals shift on the carpet, he hesitates with the door propped open. I roll my forehead over my knee, lift up my head. He’s watching me, worried and scared, at least he’s not fucking crying. Longer I watch him back, less scared he looks, more sad he looks. Fuck. I think he’s figured out what I’m working up the nerve to say to him.

Makes me lose my nerve. I look somewhere else, look at whatever’s not him. “Yesterday sucked.”

“Oh.” The door eases closed, latches, both of us out in the hall now. “Oh, Sacha. It wasn’t so bad.”

“No, it sucked.” I press my face into my knee, fight tears. I try not to fucking cry and do it anyway. I get breath-hitched weepy in the way I hate and can’t do anything about. “Ethan, it _sucked_. I didn’t have my pills, I didn’t have my phone, I didn’t know where you _were_ \--”

“I know. I know, I’m sorry.”

“-- I was so scared, I didn’t know what was going to happen, what I might do, if this was it, it would all be over, I’d never even fucking see you again just wake up somewhere wrong --”

“Oh, Sacha -- Sacha, no --”

He’s in front of me now, melted into softness, gone stupid with it, crying because I’m bawling, I can’t stop. I can’t get mad at him for crying when I start doing it first.

“-- I wanted to run, but, I couldn’t leave you, I couldn’t leave, I couldn’t go look for you either, I didn’t know what to do, I had to get help --”

“I’m know, Sacha, I’m so sorry.”

I don’t know why he wants me to talk if he’s just going to interrupt. I don’t know why he’s so fucking unhappy when he was the one who wanted to do this, he wanted to talk about yesterday.

“-- then you show up, useless as shit. I fucking needed you, Ethan, I needed my navigator and you weren’t there. It sucked, it just fucking sucks sometimes and that’s not fair, I'm sorry, you shouldn’t have to do this, you should be able to fuck up sometimes --”

“Oh, Sacha --”

“But I’m trying, Ethan. I swear to God I’m trying, I’m trying so goddamn hard and I just can’t, I fucking can’t, I can’t do this --”

“No, you can!” He turns dry-eyed, desperate. He pushes his fingers through my hair. He strokes my shoulder, flutters at me. “Sacha, you can. You can do this, you're doing it. One day at a time, baby, you can do this. Yesterday’s over. You did it. Focus on today.”

“Today fucking sucks. It just started, and it already sucks.” Like our honeymoon, like our marriage, didn’t even make it a fucking week.

“It’s not so bad,” he soothes. “Today’s not so bad, Sacha.”

“Today sucks,” I sob.

It’s a bit of that for a while, my poor dumb fucking navigator having to sit there listening to his fighter whine and moan like a little bitch. Eventually I stop, get sick of feeling sorry for myself, make myself sick with sobbing. I let Ethan drag me off the floor, dump me into bed.

I’m on my fucking honeymoon, in bed with this hot piece of mine, and everything’s miserable. Seems about right, feels just like home. I don’t know why I made us both come all the way out here just to watch movies in bed like always on shit days.

He might be the best navigator, but he’s still stupid enough to let me talk him into this mess. I’m the only one of us who’s ever been smart enough to leave, but he makes me stupid enough too that I keep coming back. Makes me so stupid that I get terrified thinking I won't get to come back, won't know how. I wear his fucking name, where to find him, I keep it around my neck so I'll never lose him, even if I get lost.

It’s a lot of that, an entire day of that, being sick and miserable. Later when Aleks is actually awake he texts me, I text him back. Ethan sucks it up to go face down the hotel staff, comes back to the room with a deck of cards and gets me doing something that takes more focus than staring at a screen. Aleks sends me a picture of Essem, I wonder how long he had to chase her around the apartment to get her dumbass face actually looking at the camera. I show it to Ethan, let him get curious about what the fuck Aleks and me are talking about, hand him the scoop and let him go to town with it.

I wake up in the middle of the night, or maybe I’m not asleep yet. Everything’s slow about coming together. I’m in a bed, not my bed, but this hot piece of mine’s in it with me so I guess that does make it mine. I got tickly little fingers scratching into my hair. He’s awake. I can hear something, television maybe, I part thickness from my eyes briefly to see it’s all flickering glow and soft volume, murmured background nonsense. Hotel.

Ethan slips from the bed, he must think I’m asleep. I certainly slump heavily enough into the empty warmth he leaves behind to be asleep. I think my eyes went shut again. I think I remember a shit day, grey blur, Aleks sent me a picture of the cat. Awkward as shit breakfast that morning, wanted the day over faster, I popped a double-dose of sleeping pills before bed. Great getting me to unwind, just sucks if I do this bullshit later, being alert inside while dead to the world outside. As far as side-effects go, it could be worse.

Ethan’s back in the bed, pushes me out of the way to get comfortable, definitely thinks I’m asleep. I hear the soft scritch-scratch of pen on paper. He’s writing this one down, it’s late enough that I did it. I got all the way through the day without fucking it up too much. I get to try again. I get to be here for tomorrow. 

“What day’s it?” That slurred out mess is me, speaking, can’t get too mad at him for always pestering me with questions when I do this to him, always bug him at weird hours with dumb questions.

“Two hundred seventy-six,” he says softly, whispers it like I’m asleep even though I’m talking to him. Always sounds like that when I get like this.

When I try to shift he helps, drags the bad leg for me since it’s dead weight. I get flopped into him, cuddle up against my navigator since I’m asleep, doesn’t count.

I get to mumble my dumb questions right into his neck now. “Think I’ll make three hundred?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Four hundred?”

“Sure,” he says.

"Five hundred?"

My eyes are closed, everything’s dark, but I can hear him smiling. “Yes, but I might run out room by then.”

“Get you another one for Christmas.”

“No… No, don’t do that,” he says quietly. I don’t think he likes that he does it. I hope I’m not being a jerk asking about it.

First time I caught him at it, we had a big fight. I know it was day eighty-something because he fucking counts them, I saw all the numbers before he ripped the journal out of my hands. I saw some of what he wrote. A lot of cussing and screaming followed. I stormed out, just said _going_ for my destination that time, took off without my phone or meds. I couldn’t be too mad at him for getting frantic and chasing me down.

I can’t be mad at him for keeping count, either, when he knows it’s just a matter of time. I’ll fuck this up eventually. I try not to let it scare me, try more not to let it scare him, but it’s so fucking hard sometimes. It’s the hardest goddamn fight of my life, and I don’t think I’m ever going to win. Good thing I’m a tough stubborn asshole who doesn’t know when to quit.  

It gets tangled into a sigh, tumbles out as heavy as the rest of me. “Sorry.” I chew around my numb lips to get the words out, they’re important. “I’ll do better tomorrow.”

Ethan’s fingers tremble as they run through my bangs, brush the hair aside, guess he wants a better look at my drooling mean mug of a face. I don’t hear him say anything back. Maybe I’m asleep all the way through, maybe I’ll stay that way for the rest of the night now.

He whispers, like I really am asleep. “Sacha, you’re doing great. You did great today and yesterday both, day before that, too -- You are doing such a good job, baby. I can tell how hard you're working at this. I'm proud of you.”

He’s an idiot. My dumb fucking navigator says the stupidest things. I get so fucking crazy sometimes just trying to make everything nice for him because he’s like this, he’s soft and stupid. I feel him shift, hear the blankets rustling. Ethan’s nose bumps my cheek, his tender lips find my slack ones, he presses close. I hear him sigh like he's going to fall asleep. 

He leaves the television on, knows I like the background murmur blocking sounds that aren’t normal, aren’t home. He’s smart like that, knows all this shit without me having to point it out, learned quick about the stuff I did have to point out. If he knew already why I was upset, why’d he make me talk about it? I knew he was sorry. I know what it’s like to do the wrong thing despite trying hard. It fucking sucks.

I got one final dumb question for him before I’ll shut up and let us both get some sleep. “Ethan, do I make you happy?”

His breath drags in, shaky and wet, but it comes out steady and smooth. "Yes." I got him back at the controls again, he’s willing to line up the shots for me like I need. “Yes, Sacha. You make me very happy.”

“Yeah,” I say. Kiss him, there on his neck, some sloppy bite thing that’s more like clever drooling than anything. I hope he likes it. I hope he likes the way I say it nice. I say it real fucking nice for him so he knows what I mean. “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Ethan echoes. He always sounds so much nicer than me when he says it. He strokes my hair, idly traces ticklish touches over my shoulder, turns a kiss into my forehead and leaves it there. He doesn’t say anything else, but I know what he means. I know exactly what this dumb navigator of mine is thinking, because I’m thinking it right back at him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now begins the actual new material for this sequel, please enjoy <3
> 
> (Abel POV)

A prowling hand circles my waist, presses flat over my belly and slides under my shirt. Sacha nestles further into me, he sets his chin into my shoulder, his teeth nibble my ear. I can almost feel the rough-tempo beat of his heart as his chest presses into my back.   

“Ethan,” he murmurs. “I need to leave.”

I turn into the embrace, turn to look up at him like the honeymooners that we still are until we get on this plane. We’re standing in the middle of the airport security line, it’s this tense, hot, winding pack of people herded into stanchioned corridors. Ahead of us are security agents, behind us are security agents, this is a very secure area. 

This is the worst possible time, almost the worst possible place, and he knows it. He’s blown-open pupils and shock-pale white beneath his tan. Normally he’d be gone already, my warning would have been where to find him, but we both know this is almost the worst possible time for it, the wrong place. Better than the plane itself, and that thought brings a cold wave of calm. I have to get him out of this, now. 

“Okay,” I say. Too sharp, I make an effort at smoothing the next. “Okay. That’s fine. Let's get out of here.”

My heart’s racing as I grab the beach tote carry-on. It’ll be chilly when we land, we’re both dressed for home and not the beach, the tote has our jackets in it, all our things. I can’t leave it behind. I’m suddenly so glad I nearly got arrested a few days ago. I’m so much more prepared for the possibility it might happen again.

I gently push Sacha, loop my arm through his to get him moving. I offer as best a smile I can to the family of four in line behind us. “Excuse us.” 

I pull Sacha along without care for the way the mom’s gaze tracks us for a minute past subtle. Between the limp and his white-faced grimacing, Sacha isn’t subtle either. 

“Sorry, coming through -- Excuse us --” I’m certainly not subtle, barreling for the exit. I shove through conversations and knock over a suitcase in my haste. He’s shivering against me, staggering, I can hear the harsh pant of breath that tells me he’s struggling. 

I let go of the beach tote to grab the elastic barrier. It’s either make Sacha suffer the dense switchback of the crowd or break open the stanchions to beeline him anywhere that’s not packed with people like this. 

Standing near enough but with a turned back is a uniform-glad security agent. “Excuse me!” I call loud as I dare, as commandingly as I dare. I try to sound calm, not hysterical, I’m going to stay calm about this.

Her head pulls in my direction. With Sacha chalk-colored and braced into me, the way I’m leaned forward anxious but trying to be polite -- it’s obvious we need help. Hopefully, at least, she thinks we need help and not that I’m any type of security threat. She comes closer with brisk strides. I keep a worried, pleasant smile in place. 

“My husband needs through,” I say. “Please, may we cut through?”

“Is he ill?” she asks. Concerned, at least, and not alarmed, not likely to arrest us I think. So long as Sacha’s okay, but he’s sagging into me like he might not be for much longer if I can’t hurry us out of here faster.

“Yes. He is.” I answer without flinching, and I cautiously start to lift the plastic clip of the barrier. When she seems to be reaching to help instead of stopping me, I move faster. “Where’s the restroom?” I ask. 

My urgency gets reflected in how she jerks back and points. “That way,” she says. Her expression is a panicked one of not wanting vomit on her shoes, now that I’ve made the implication that’s my unfolding disaster. 

I drag Sacha forward, almost forget about the beach tote. I can’t abandon luggage. They do security announcements over the intercom specifically about it. It has all our things, his medicine, I can’t leave it behind. I snatch the handle on the tote and think rapidly how long ago Sacha took a sedative, if he can have another, what I’m going to do if he can’t, what I’m going to do if this gets worse.  

I remember to thank the woman so maybe it’s less suspicious, like maybe I’m not terrified. The restroom entrance is in sight of the security line, so I can’t instead run for the exit. Sacha shudders in such a way I wonder if the same thought’s occurred to him, if he’s realized I’m not taking him outside. 

“Ethan --”

“I know. I know, I’m sorry,” I say. “But --”

Sacha stumbles and then slides an arm around my shoulders. His fingers bruise with desperation. His voice shakes like the rest of him. “Ethan, I’m serious.”

I swallow a dry terror. I gulp several quick, bracing breaths. “Okay. Okay, we’re leaving,” I tell him. Maybe the passing drift of people means that security agent’s lost track of us. Maybe she’s already lost interest, forgotten about us. Maybe it won’t look suspicious that I’m rushing Sacha as fast as I can for the doors. 

Bright tropical sunshine baths over us as the glass glides open. I’m frozen inside, thawing as I move Sacha further and further from the building without anyone shouting after us. There’s still nowhere quiet, nowhere without people. The departures drop-off is a bustling loud loop of passengers and vehicles, big rumbling buses and maneuvering cars.  

I hear a choked kind of groan from Sacha, he buckles slightly. I think he’s realizing there’s nowhere for him to go, that I don’t have anywhere to take him. I hope he’s not thinking of how far he is from the apartment, how far he is from even the borrowed coziness of the hotel. I’m sure he knows. He’s probably been thinking it for a while.

“Here. Benches,” I say hastily. I steer Sacha to one of the poured cement monoliths. 

He sits heavily, slumps his head into the tangled grip of his shaking hands. The bad leg’s bouncing, all of him jittery and tense. I sit next to him, right up close, and snatch at the tote. I already threw out the bottle of water, but no way I’m leaving Sacha to go buy another. My searching hands dig beneath our jackets to reach the rattle of Sacha’s pills.

Now that I’m thinking about it, I realize I saw him take one before breakfast and then another in the cab on the way here. I should have realized something was wrong, but I didn’t really think about it. He takes one when he’s nervous, and he’s always nervous before we go somewhere. I didn’t think about it, didn't remember in the taxi about watching him take one already. I was so focused on getting us here, so worried we might be late, more anxious about missing the flight than getting Sacha on it. 

Much as it pains me to suggest he wait it out, he might have to. He shouldn’t take another this soon, not when he’s already had two so close together. I rub my other hand over his back. He’s shivering despite the hot, humid cling of paradise. Cold sweat collars his neck and sticks clumps of dark hair to his forehead. The tortured twist of his brow covers the wrenched together strain of his tight-closed eyes. His jaw’s clenched around whined protest. This is a bad one. 

I keep rubbing between Sacha’s bowed shoulders, stay close to him. Suddenly he fumbles for my hand, for his pills. I let him have it, don’t fuss at all to keep it. The whole bottle’s not enough for it to be too many, I know that, I reassure myself with it all the time.

A frustrated growl that’s more like a sob falls from him. His eyes open for a dark, wet glare at the safety-cap. The desperate, useless maul of his shaking hands can’t manage it open. His breath is starting to spiral, he’s choking on panic --

“Sacha, here.” I snatch the orange cannister from him, wrench the cap with a shoved-in twist. I try to shake a single round pill into my palm, but three tumble out instead. Before I can stop him, before I can curl my hand around the pills, Sacha grabs them all, swallows them. He lunges for the open bottle, but I pull it away. I only meant to offer him one, and even one more was too much.  

I strain not to sound terrified, to sound soothing and calm for him. “Wait a minute, baby, let that kick in first. Okay?”

Sacha groans and slumps sideways into my lap. His face presses into my thigh, and I wish desperately that we weren’t sitting in the middle of the airport departures drop-off for this. Tears sting, my throat feels thick when I swallow. I gently stroke trembling fingers through his hair. I try to ignore the curious stares I can feel accumulating. Let them stare, he’s not hurting anyone. He’s just scared. 

Short of hopping into one of the passing cabs, there’s no easy way out of this. I’m not even certain a cab would be better than this grimy cement slab. I don’t know where I’d take him. Somewhere quiet and comfortable is what he needs. This bench is neither, although I hope Sacha’s more comfortable than I am. He’s latched around my waist, buried into my lap, shaking so miserably that I just don’t know what to do besides wait, same as him.

I know it’s not one of the times he wants to talk, we’re so beyond talking at this point. I know as well he probably doesn’t want to hear me say anything, much as I want to assure him everything’s fine. He can hold me tight as he wants, but he doesn’t need to -- I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here with him. I stroke softly at his back, his hair, I want to make sure he knows I’m here. 

I bite my lip to keep quiet, even though this is a bad one. Maybe if we weren’t in this terribly open and exposed place, maybe if we were somewhere else he’d be okay with it. If I say anything now it’s just going to make him think about where we are, how far we are from home. I’m sure he’s already thinking that. I don’t want to make this worse. It’s bad enough already. 

I caress his arm, feeling the tense tremors. He’s still shaking, the bad leg trembling all the worse for the odd, twisted angle of his sideways slump, but his breathing’s turned steady, become less treacherous. I think he’s on the downhill of this finally.

I offer it tentatively, softly, whispering beneath the overheard roar of planes, the impatient honks of taxis jostling for position. “Sacha? Sacha, do you want to try going somewhere else?”

I’m not sure where, that’ll have to be my follow up, but I don’t want to overwhelm him. He only needs to decide if we’ll stay here or not, that’s all I’m asking, his choice if he wants to try moving or just stay here. I’m not surprised when his head shakes, when he hides deeper into me. He doesn’t want to go anywhere. I’m not sure he can yet.

I swallow hard around a growing thick lump in my throat. I glance up and meet the bluntly curious stare of a child dangling off her mother’s hand. I’m entirely too conscious of the way Sacha’s huddled face-first into me, how strange this looks. Short, quick breaths keep the urge to sob suppressed. I look back down at Sacha and run my fingers through his hair. 

“Okay,” I tell him. A soft, desperate lie. “It’s okay, baby. Take your time.”

Two hours until our plane leaves. Two hours. I swallow panic, swallow around that wet lump. No reason to think Sacha can’t do this. No reason to think I might need to start making hotel arrangements for tonight. No reason to think I’m stuck on this island for the rest of my life if I can’t get Sacha on the plane. 

Eventually Sacha’s grip on me eases, he gets heavier and heavier as his breathing slows. I realize he’s on the verge of passing out and start a desperate, doomed effort to stop him. The gentle touch I sweep along his cheek becomes soft, urgent patting. 

“Sacha.” I’m stern with it, insistent. “Sacha, wake up.”

A thick, groggy mumble pours from his boneless sprawl. “M’wake.”

He’s not, he’s out. I know from experience it’d be possible to get him upright and moving, but only for a short distance. Certainly not all the way through airport security. We're not going anywhere yet.

I check the time on my watch before shifting to get Sacha more comfortable. I coax him into getting his legs up on the bench, help lift the dead weight of the bad one. I scoot to the edge and pull Sacha’s head into my lap. It’s a strange, awkward place for this but not the worst I suppose. Better than a bathroom stall.

After fifty-two minutes of being dead-to-the-world unconscious in my lap, Sacha stirs. His head shifts, and he tries to turn onto his side as if this were our bed at home. The effort’s abandoned with a heavy flop. He sighs. It’s not much, but I might be able to get him up now. 

I cup his cheek. “Sacha?”

“Mmn.” His brow creases as he tries to swallow. I don’t have any water to offer him, I know his mouth’s likely plagued with a dry, medicinal taste. 

“Sacha, baby, open your eyes for me.”

His lashes tremble as if they’re too heavy to open before he manages it. I smile encouragement at his bleary, glassy-eyed vacancy. I ask it brightly, gently, whispering in case I’m wrong. “Are you awake?”

His head moves in a nod. Slow, confused, and his eyes close before the motion completes. He doesn’t know where he is yet, what's happened. A plane descends with a dull roar overhead, and Sacha's mouth pulls into a frown. 

“Sacha.” I speak quietly as I dare, softly as I can. I stroke the back of my hand over his cheek until his eyes open again, he looks at me. I wait for his wavering, bleary-eyed gaze to settle, until I'm certain he sees me. I ask it carefully, more deliberate this time, letting him know I need and want a real answer. “Sacha, can you wake up for me?”

“Yeah.” Thick, difficult, but already he's trying to work moisture and swallow. The woozy confusion of his gaze takes in what's not me, what's the half-shade of the covered drop-off loop. His head lifts. I help him to sit, help him get his legs off the bench in a barely controlled tumble. 

He leans into me, heavy-eyed and heavy-limbed. I keep my arm around him, let him rest his cheek into my shoulder as he struggles alert. I don’t want to check my watch and make him anxious, make him remember we have somewhere to be. I’m not sure how long we just sit there, Sacha upright and fighting hard to focus but just not quite managing. I’m not about to ask him to do anything else, not yet, not when I’m already forcing him awake like this. Three-at-once will put him down for hours, for nearly the whole day, and he’s had more than that. I don’t have enough time to give him. Not if I still want to make this flight, and I desperately do. I’m frantic to get Sacha home. 

At last he stirs again, pulls his head off me as he pulls himself together. Sacha rubs hard at his face, sighs hard as well. I’m sure this is hard for him. He took too much of a medication he’s only supposed to take occasionally, and it’s the second time this week he’s done it. It’s a little worrisome, makes me wonder if it means something, if the medicine’s getting less effective or if he’s getting worse, or if maybe a week-long vacation hundreds of miles from home was simply too much for him.

Sacha glances over at me. I make an effort to clear my thoughts, smooth my expression into a calm mask. I don’t want him to see how worried I am, how scared this is making me feel. The edges of my smile tremble with the effort of keeping it in place. 

The words mush together, but I understand him clearly enough. “How long?” 

I use the excuse to check the time, even though I kept an eye on my watch the entire time he was out. “Not long,” I assure him. “You were asleep less than an hour.” 

His head nods an absent acknowledgement. I’m not sure he really understood the answer. I’m not sure he’s realized the urgency, but I am sure the plane’s already started boarding, that we’re running out of time.

I have to say something, have to ask. My hand soothes comfort across his slumped shoulders. “Do you want to try going back inside?”

Sacha’s head lifts. He turns a stare at the nearest entrance back into the airport, and the already sickly-scant color in his cheeks bleeds out entirely. I’m scared he might faint, or start panicking again, but he just sits there staring at the doors. At last I see him swallow and then slowly shake his head. 

Dread fills my chest, makes it hard to breathe. “Okay.” I sound strangled, sound just as desperate as I feel, and Sacha’s eyes flick to me. I can’t manage much of a smile. “Another ten minutes?”

Even that’s too long, but if I can get him back inside then I can try asking at the ticket counter for them to hold the plane. I can try asking the security agents to let us cut in line, maybe plead them to give Sacha a little more space than usual, see if Sacha wants to use his obvious leg injury as an excuse rather than explain the awkward truth. I can ask for a wheelchair, maybe Sacha would let me stick him in one long enough for the mad dash to our gate. 

I think Sacha’s figured it out, I think he’s realizing why I look so on-edge and frazzled. I think he knows why my smile keeps wavering, why my voice is getting thick. Reluctantly I show him my watch, let him see the fast-approaching deadline. We sit in matched anticipatory silence as the minutes tick by, until it’s the ten minutes I offered and then some. 

He swallows, it doesn’t help. The admittance still chokes him. “C-can’t. Ethan, can’t.”

A helpless feeling washes over me. He’s not lying or exaggerating, he genuinely can’t do this right now. If I try forcing him back inside this is going to get worse, and getting inside isn’t even the most stressful part. He’s got the security line, the checkpoint itself, the plane and that five hour flight, getting off the plane and through the airport, the cab ride home. He’s so far from home it kills me, because I can’t get him there by myself. I can’t roll him into one of these impatient taxis and rush us away from this. I need him on the plane.

Sacha puts his face into his hands. A numb, hollow feeling starts in my fingers and toes, spreads into my chest. It’s a cold acceptance of the moment, the closest I’ll let myself get to panicking. 

“That’s okay,” I tell him. “Sacha, that’s okay. We can miss our flight. There’s another flight.”

I’m just assuming this, but it has to be true. I draw several slow, steady breaths. My voice gains firm steadiness, a brisk sense of purpose. “I’ll go inside, see what I can arrange. Okay?”

His head sketches a brief nod without lifting out of his hands. I get to my feet and rub my hand into his shoulder, gently knead my fingers into the tense, knotted muscles. I press my lips into his hair. I hope he’s thinking how much I love him, how much I don’t mind when things go wrong like this. Sometimes he just can’t, no matter how hard he tries. I understand, I know this isn’t his fault. I hope he knows that, too. 

I hesitate at the doors, but Sacha’s sitting on the bench right where I left him. He knows to stay there or let me know right away if he can’t, if he needs to leave. He has his phone, I have my phone -- I check, just to make sure, my fingers touching lightly at the bump in my pocket before I head for the ticket counter.

What follows is awkward, no way around it. I’m accustomed to awkwardness by now. I don’t even flinch at explaining to the ticket agent how I won’t be able to make my flight despite already having checked in my luggage and printed my boarding pass. I stand right in front of this poor woman and tell her it’s impossible for me to board the plane even if they hold it at the gate for me. Fortunately the vague explanation of a medical emergency and my willingness to pay the rebooking fee gets the conversation moving in the direction I need. 

I check my phone while the ticketing agent types into the computer. There’s a text from Aleks confirming what time our flight lands, because he offered to pick us up at the airport. Quickly I type,  _ Missed the flight. Rebooking now, I’ll let you know. _

The agent’s still typing when the reply appears. He’s so quick with it that I imagine the phone was already in his hands.  _ OK Let me know. _

I’m sure he’s curious, but I’m equally certain he can take a guess why we missed our flight. I glance up and then smile at the ticketing agent, who I realize is looking at me expectantly. I get her to repeat the question, and it’s a choice between flights. I nod, tell her to give me a minute, explain I need to call my husband. I step away from the counter as I lift my phone to my ear. 

“Yeah.” Sacha answers on the fourth ring, beating the voice mail by a scant heartbeat. I let out a relieved breath. 

“There’s a flight at six tonight or we can do tomorrow morning,” I tell him. “At eleven o’clock again.”

I’m pretty certain he’ll want to try again tomorrow, instead of waiting for later tonight. Tomorrow I can help him time the dosage better, maybe get us here earlier to help beat the crowd. Maybe there’s less of a crowd on Sunday as opposed to Saturday. Maybe this wasn’t triggered by the crowd at all, maybe he’s freaking out about the flight itself even though he managed the one here just fine. He was only nervous leaving the apartment, and he’s always nervous right before we go anywhere. 

I’m desperate to know what went wrong, if it was anything I could have prevented, anything I could have helped him avoid or deal with better. Sacha does his best, he’s so good about everything, he works hard every day and knows to ask for help, but sometimes it’s not enough. Sometimes he can’t tell me what’s wrong. I hope this isn’t going to be one of those times, I hope whatever went wrong for him is something we can talk about later, something I can help with him. I hope this isn’t my fault somehow. 

“Today,” says Sacha. The words drip together like syrup. “Not tomorrow. Today.”

He hangs up before I can ask if he’s sure, before I can make sure he actually understands. I hate second-guessing him on what he’s capable of, but I really think tomorrow would be better. I don’t know what to do other than go back to the counter, smile at the terse, impatient woman waiting for my answer, and tell her later today is fine. If it’s not, there’s always tomorrow. I’ll pay the rebooking fee again if I have to, keep paying it as many times as this takes. I flew a starfighter, no reason I can’t pilot a commercial jet if necessary. I’ll do it, I will hijack a plane if that’s what it takes to get Sacha home. 

Fresh boarding passes in hand, I track down a bottle of water from a vending machine before heading outside to find Sacha. I write a quick text to Aleks on the way letting him know the new plan. We’ll be getting in late, he might as well go home. We’ll take a taxi from the airport. Everything’s fine, we’ll be back tonight. Sacha’s going to be okay, we’ll be home tonight, everything’s okay. 

I glance up to check my progress back and hit send before typing anymore reassurances to someone who doesn’t need them. Sacha tracks my approach with a bleary-eyed, drifting lack of focus. I’m suddenly not sure I should have left him, considering how out of it he looks. He took too much, he’s barely conscious, I hope he didn’t forget where I went or why he’s sitting in a strange place by himself. I hope he hasn't forgotten who he is, who I am. My footsteps quicken, a flurry of concern driving me back to his side. 

“Okay. We’re all set,” I announce. My cheerful attempt at a smile falters when I see Sacha rub at his face, the slow nod he gives me that indicates he doesn’t understand what I’m saying, just that I’m saying something and smiling at him. 

Worrisome as his glassy-eyed stare is, though, I can see plainly that he knows who I am. He’s keeping it together as best he can, I don’t have to be scared he’s going to ask me about Abel. I ease on to the bench beside Sacha, twist the cap off the water to give him. He chugs through half before thinking to offer me some. I shake my head and let him drain the rest. When he’s done I find a trash can, return to the bench, and then check my watch. 

“Sacha?” I wait until he’s looking at me. I smile, keep my voice light and pleasant. “Let’s sit inside. We won’t go through security yet.” I’m quick with the assurance, even though his blank stare doesn’t waver. He doesn’t even blink. “Where I got the water, there’s some seats there we can use. It’s quieter than here, more private.”

I’ll take it slow this time. We were a bit late getting checked out of the hotel, a bit behind schedule arriving here at the airport. I rushed us from the cab to luggage check to the security line without really focusing on Sacha. He handled everything about the flight here just fine, handled that fire alarm and me bailing on him, I don’t know why this went so wrong. It could be nothing, I could be jumping at shadows. Sometimes things just go wrong, I know that, but it’s hard not to feel responsible all the same. 

“Sacha?” He hasn’t responded yet, he’s still just staring at me without anything else going on except that. He’s so empty it scares me. I caress his face, stroke my fingers over his brow as if to coax feeling into what’s gone numb on him. I try not to sound as desperate as I feel. “Sacha, baby, let’s go inside. You can take another nap. Okay?”

His cheek rubs into my hand as he nods. His eyes close with a long, weary droop, he nods again even slower. I stroke my hands through his hair and then lean in to kiss his cheek. With murmured encouragement, I get Sacha’s arm over my shoulders. I have to explain what I want twice before he nods and staggers upright for me. 

Nothing’s graceful about the limped, crooked effort he puts into walking, but he tries. He keeps his head down to focus and still stumbles worse than if drunk. He leans sideways into me, leans more of his weight on me than I can easily handle. It’s no huge surprise that someone in uniform notices. Not security, at least, not that woman I lied to -- just one of the luggage porters, a good samaritan wanting to help. I wonder if I asked someone to call the fire department and get a guy named Mike out here they’d do it.

Sacha’s too confused to protest, too woozy to keep his feet, and I’ve decided to go with his leg injury for my excuse rather than try explaining anything else. I don’t like explaining about Sacha when he can’t do it himself, it makes everything seem worse. Sacha grins and cracks self-deprecating jokes, Sacha’s explanations don’t make people’s expressions tighten with awkward sympathy. I think I always look too desperate, too devastated, too terrified. It’s just easier when I lie, blame things on the visible disability, the one that’s impossible to hide so there’s no point in pretending otherwise. 

I get Sacha settled into the borrowed wheelchair, ask him to hold the beach tote holding our jackets and other little carry-on things I thought to pack. The pill bottle’s jammed into my pocket for safekeeping, and I intend to keep it there until we’re home. If he gets panicked again I don’t want him trying for another overdose to knock himself out. Forget getting him on the plane if he does, I’ll be too busy calling his doctor and crying. 

I can’t cry. I know that. Crying won’t help, crying’s just going to make me feel worse, make him miserable. I can’t mess up like I did with the fire alarm. Even though this went wrong, Sacha’s still trying to do all the right things. He needed to leave, knew he couldn’t, got me to help him, his only mistake was grabbing all three pills but I understand why he did that. He felt scared enough it wouldn’t stop that he wanted an immediate out. He either forgot about the two he’d already taken or didn’t care. 

I’ll let him sleep for a bit, then see if he’s ready to try the security checkpoint. He’s staying focused as best he can, he’s woozy and distant but still with me, he knows who I am, who he is. This is just a bad day, it’s not the worst. Everything’s gone wrong, but we’ll get through this day like we have all the rest. Two hundred eighty perfect days since Sacha came home, and I’ll get him home again if it kills me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Cain POV)

Ethan’s got his hand on my arm, he’s talking at me slow and steady. No fucking idea what he’s saying. Dark punched-in circles of exhaustion telling me he’s had a long, hard day. This is a bad one. I don’t even know what the fuck I did wrong, but I’m real sorry for it, real fucking fast.

He's asking me something, asking me to do something. Looking at me with those big, pretty blue eyes and fragile smile, my soft stupid navigator working hard to keep it together. Whatever he's asking, I'll do it. Whatever the fuck he wants, looking at me like that, I’ll do it for him.

Shit, he wants more than nodding. It takes forever to remember how the fuck words happen. “Yeah.”

I know that’s not what he wants, but he ought to know I’m confused as hell. I finally think to look at whatever’s not him, at wherever the fuck we are. Row after row of empty plane seats, dark ovals telling me shit about what’s outside except night.

I turn my head the other way. How the fuck did I get on a plane? I don’t remember that. I just remember Ethan asking me something. Mouth feels dry, I think I was asleep. Was waking up the first thing he asked?

“Sacha? Here, baby, I’ll help you. They’ll have the chair again once we’re off the plane, you just need to go a little ways. I’ll help, it’s not far.”

Empty seats, plane’s not moving. He wants me up. We’re leaving. When the fuck did I get on the plane? I don’t remember that. Shit, what do I remember besides Ethan asking me stuff?

Trying to ask him doesn’t work so great. It’s jumbled confusion instead of actual speaking. “Why’s’th?”

Makes him smile, though, a real smile, and he talks at me like I can actually hear him, since he knows that’s the case if I’m trying to ask questions. “We’re here, Sacha. We’re home. Ready to go?” Ethan stands, pulls at my arm to get me moving.

Home. Plane. Empty seats, getting up -- okay, fuck, I can do this. Easy one, he just wants me up. I lurch to my feet, grab the seat back for balance. Up and walking, I think I can do both. My head’s spinning, everything’s going round and round like the curved walls of this tiny fucking plane, but I got all these empty rows to clutch. I got this.

Ethan cautiously lets go of my arm once he sees I’m managing to stagger into the aisle without falling on my face. I might’ve been trying to walk earlier, I remember watching my feet like this. I think it was hot. I remember being sweaty. I’m still trying to think of what else I remember when we get to the doors, pilot and a cute blonde stewardess smiling at us to get the fuck off their plane faster. They have no idea how slow I can limp, this is me practically running.

Someone asks Ethan about me. There’s a goddamn wheelchair, guy standing there with it like I’m getting in and going for a ride. I turn my head to look at Ethan, who’s trying to say a half-dozen polite things to everyone with that same desperate smile. He’s looking tired, it’s dark out, chill in the air announcing this sure as fuck isn’t the tropics, he’s not on vacation anymore. I made him work hard today.

“Don’t need the chair,” I say. “I can walk.”

Comes out sounding wrong, slurred and strung together, but it’s the truth. I only weave a little sideways getting out of the doorway and onto the jet bridge. I got this. Walking’s fine, if Ethan’s wanting me to walk. I can do that, I can walk somewhere for him.  

Ethan ducks under my arm, gets his around my waist. He pulls me off the wall. Guess I can’t walk leaning into it, gotta lean into him instead.

“Got it?” More like prompting me with it, being nice about asking me to get my shit together.

“Yeah.” I look at my feet, focus on that. Gotta walk a straight line for him, try not to lean so much of my weight on him. I can do this, I got this. Can’t walk around leaning on walls, I know that.

At the end of the jet bridge, Ethan tries to look everywhere at once. “Okay, baggage claim,” he murmurs. “Baggage claim…”

If he’s talking to himself and I’m stumbling like a drunk unable to remember what the fuck I’m doing, then something went wrong. Last clear memory I’ve got is breakfast, maybe the cab from the hotel, it’s bits and pieces after that. Just keeping focused on walking’s hard enough, but I’m managing it without Ethan’s help at least. I can do this much for him while he does the rest.

Ethan finds what’s he looking for, the luggage carousel churning around a few sad, pathetic suitcases. He let the whole plane empty before trying to get me out, means our luggage’s waiting on us rather than the other way around. Except, I don’t see my duffel. I don’t see his powder-blue suitcase.

“I need to ask what happened to our bags.”

Ethan doesn’t sound surprised they’re not here, just resigned and exhausted. Makes sense if he’s been dragging my worthless ass around since breakfast and it’s past midnight. I’m looking right at the time on the monitors. I’d gone looking for the date first, panicked at seeing it was Sunday since my last memory’s on a Saturday. After midnight’s okay though, means it’s still Saturday night, I’ve got Sunday waiting for me at home.

Ethan finds somewhere to leave me, finds me a row of uncomfortable hard plastic seats in the near-empty terminal. He hovers while I brace my hand into the back of one, get myself slumped into it.

Worry pulls at his smile, makes the curved line tremble. “I don’t know how long this will take. Do you need anything? Are you okay to wait here?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Yeah, Ethan. I’m okay.” Almost fucking impossible just to get words working, can’t put any effort into sounding nice. I hope he knows I’m not mad at him, just feeling shitty and doing everything wrong.

Relief splashes over his face, draws brilliance into his tired smile. Ethan crouches some to get eye-level with where I’m sitting. His fingers tickle through my hair, he smiles again, he’s ready to go to fucking pieces on me. Those big pretty eyes of his are looking wet. Rather than say anything, Ethan just tips forward and kisses my forehead. He leaves his lips there, saying something soft and stupid with his silence.

He straightens, strokes a hand over my hair like petting a fucking dog. I’m giving him a pass on it, because something went wrong today. Me, obviously me, pretty fucking obvious I lost my shit somewhere between leaving the hotel and getting off the plane just now.

Ethan leaves me sitting there to track down the answers he needs about whatever mess I’ve gotten us into. I hope our luggage isn’t lost. I got all these dumb fucking souvenirs packed in my bag. I like those sunglasses I bought the first day, got tired of squinting as I watched Ethan sunbathe.

I think to get out my phone, wake it up, start checking my messages for clues only there aren’t any, just the nonsense Aleks and I were sending each other last night. I look at the picture of Ethan I sent to him, real nice picture. Ethan sitting on the beach smiling, him looking prettier than the rosy sunset in the background. It gets me to smiling some, thinking I might swap out my lock screen or wallpaper with it. Currently got it set as him holding the stupid clingy cat, the two of them looking at me like I ought to put the camera down and come cling onto them.

I glance up to see Ethan coming back, moving quick and expression anxious. I straighten, put my phone away, see him start smiling when our eyes meet. He slows some, less like he’s running now, guess nothing’s wrong except him getting worried I’m not going to be where he left me.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, we can go. Our luggage is in the manager’s office, we’ll pick it up on the way out. Here, let’s get our jackets on now. It’ll be cold outside.”

I don’t really give a shit about the logistics, I’m just glad our bags aren’t lost forever somewhere. Ethan’s clearly had a bad enough day, last thing he needs is anything else going wrong for him. My memory’s just grey blur and pieces, I’ll have to figure it out later or ask him what the hell happened. Remembering how the fuck my feet work takes most the energy and focus I got.

“Almost there, Sacha. Taxi stand is this way.”

I think he can tell I’m fading fast, or maybe I’ve started wavering sideways again. I can’t tell if that’s just me or how I’m actually moving. Despite his encouragement, fuck-nothing manages to trip me, sends me staggering. Ethan drops our bags to rush over and help, catches me before I can smack into the floor.

“Sorry,” I tell him. Might be what I sound like, can’t hear over the ringing for a minute or two. I keep swallowing thick paste out of my mouth, but it’s not helping. I hope I don’t puke on him.

Bad enough I’m making him haul everything, keep track of everything, do everything besides carry me over his shoulders along with the rest of my shit he’s dragging. He’s only not doing that because he can’t, I’m way too damn heavy for him. I’d lie down and let him drag me by the ankles if I thought it’d be easier on him. I ought to have sucked it up and sat in the damn wheelchair. I can’t even carry my fucking souvenirs for him, making him haul my duffel when I remember straining with the weight of it that morning.  

“Ethan, I’m sorry.” More slurring, I need to shut up and focus on one thing at a time. I know what I was trying to say, but I can’t imagine he understood it. I heard it come out wrong, heard my own drugged mumbling that’s not much better than drooling. I really fucked this up.

He squeezes my arm. “Almost there,” he assures me. Guess he doesn’t mind me leaning on him if it’s not much further. I try not to lean too hard on him.

Ethan puts me into the back of the cab, stands around to make sure our luggage gets put in the trunk, and then he’s sliding in next to me. He gives the apartment address to the driver, all polite and pretty as you please, since I’m clearly not about to do it.

Exhaustion pulls a long sigh from him. He leans back in the seat, nestles into the corner against the window. After a minute of close-eyed rest, he visibly gathers the energy to pop together a soft smile. He looks over at me with it to see what the hell I’m doing besides staring at him. Answer’s fuck nothing of course.

It spooks him some, makes the pretty curve of his mouth waver. “Sacha?”

Tentative, maybe getting scared, so I put together an effort at blinking, scowling. I try rubbing my face to put feeling into it, and I think I’ve been sitting down long enough it works.

“I feel like shit.” Mushy, my tongue’s twice too big for this. I must’ve managed to be coherent though, it makes him laugh. I thought it might, glad it does, gets my mouth curving up like his.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah. It’s been a long day, but we’ll be home soon.”

I remember him saying something like that this morning, him saying it’d be good to sleep in our own bed that night, how nice it’ll be to see the dumb cat. I’m remembering other shit now, makes it so I nearly forget to answer him. Except, fuck, what was the question? Did he ask me something?

Ethan’s smiling, got his hand near my leg. I put my left hand over his, knot our fingers to get the rings clicked together, figure maybe that’s what he wants. Pink dusts over his cheeks like it was, and I let him lean into me for a bit. I get my arm around him just to hold him, rather than holding onto him for dear life, everything spinning around me.

“Sorry about today.”

“It’s okay,” he says.

Voice real fucking soft, so I know what else he soft he wants to say. I put my lips into his hair so he won’t, not while we’re in this stupid fucking cab. I’ll let him bawl on me later if he wants, once we’re home.

I put more effort into remembering what the fuck I did wrong. I don’t like asking him, makes him cry to tell me. Fucking hate asking him what I did wrong. Easier if I can remember it, at least explain to him why the hell I had to lose my shit. Sometimes I have to tell him I don’t know, I wasn’t there. I took the easy way out, ran off and left him to deal with everything. Fuck trying to save him, he’s gotta save himself and drag my dead weight along somehow.

“Look,” he says. “You can see the lake.” He shifts to get nearer the window, like he doesn’t see the damn thing everyday. Like we didn’t just spend a week looking at more water than sky, blue stretching out into a long horizon and stars fucking everywhere.

I’m remembering drinking champagne on the balcony with him last night. Definitely not what went wrong, no point in thinking about it other than I want to, like remembering the way I got him to unwind, start laughing, silly lightweight navigator getting trashed trying to help me drain the bottle so as not to waste it, couldn’t take it with us on the plane. Glad I didn’t drink too much, didn’t black it out or anything stupid, I’m usually pretty good about knowing when I’ve had enough booze.

I lean with him like I give a shit about the stupid lake, pull my arm around his waist and get my chin into his shoulder. All that blond fluff of his tickles my nose, brushes over my lips as I mumble my stupid mushy-mouthed nonsense, kiss his neck. “Yeah. You can.”

It gets him leaning back into me again, smiling nice and looking like maybe I didn’t fuck this up too bad. It’s only Saturday. I still got tomorrow with him before he’s back to working two jobs, instead of just the one he’s got looking after me.

My leg gives it away, starts trembling like it’s got a secret everyone needs to know. I smooth my hand over my thigh, find Ethan’s hand with the gesture. I wrap my arm around his, use it to anchor me into the seat. I can’t jump out of the fucking taxi into the street, I know that. I gotta wait.

I think he’s ready to fall asleep in the cab instead of waiting for the bed he wanted so much. Stupid mattress with the lump on my side he pretends not to feel when I point it out. I watch out the window for a minute, leg jittery, and then gotta ask something, can’t keep quiet even though he’s nestled into me like he’s going to fall asleep.

Tumbles out graceful as a bag of rocks. “What’d wanna do tomorrow?”

“Hmm…” Pretty with it, sounding like everything he’s thinking is just the nicest fucking thing. His hand squeezes mine. He knows what I want if I’m asking dumb questions, if my leg’s started shivering. “Definitely sleep in late, not leave the house. I’m not even going to set my alarm. Oh, but, if Aleks ate all the food, I’ll need to run to the store… Although doesn’t the pizza place start delivering at eleven?”

He already knows, I don’t have to answer. I can shut up and just listen to him if I want. “Yeah. Think so.”

“Yeah, I think so, too,” he agrees. “Pizza for late breakfast, then, or if Aleks left us anything we can do breakfast in bed. Waffles, maybe. Or pancakes. I can’t imagine he ate all the flour.”

“Could do pizza in bed.” I want to hear him laugh, that’s why I say it, but truth is my skin’s crawling at the idea of stepping one foot into that apartment. I remember why I lost my shit now, because I’m about to do it again. My leg’s giving it all away, twitching like anyone gives a fuck what it has to say.

Got the time glowing on the dash up with there with the cab driver, nice enough looking guy who’s ignoring us. We’re past one in the morning, and I remember Ethan got up early to make sure we’d be at the airport on time. I heard him shuffling and stuffing and zipping before dawn when we were up late drinking champagne on the balcony. I bragged to Aleks about it, sent him that picture I like so much, told him my plan to get Ethan slutty-drunk so I could talk him into skinny dipping. I send Aleks the stupidest texts sometimes, makes me glad Ethan’s got a good sense of humor about it since he usually ends up seeing them.

I think Ethan’s asked me something else, but he’s short enough with the pause that I don’t have to answer. He’s rambling softly about whatever pretty thought floats into his sweet little head. I made a mistake getting him to talk me through being nervous, he won’t shut up about the stupid apartment. About all the shit at home he’s looking forward to, all the shit we can do on Sunday together.

No idea how the fuck I’m going to tell him. I’ll wait until we’re out of the cab at least, I’ll let him murmur all this cozy nice shit he thinks I’m looking forward to doing. He’s right I’m looking forward to tomorrow, Sunday’s fine. It’s Monday I’m not sure I can do. I’m remembering exactly why I lost my shit. I stood in that cramped fucking hell of a security line surrounded by homebound vacationers thinking I’d rather die than go home.

“Ethan.”

I’ve waited until the cab driver’s turned into the parking lot at least, I thought I’d wait until we’re out of the cab but now I’m not sure I can do that, I think I’m going to burst out of this vehicle running soon as it stops.

“Ethan,” I say again. Not slurring it, but I’m shaky as hell as he knows it, he knows what that fucking tone means.

His head pulls from my shoulder. He sits up slow, turns to me. Frozen expression, him waiting on whatever I’m about to say or do, him getting ready for it, trying not to look scared, bracing himself for anything and everything as we stare at each other.

Swallowing’s sure as fuck not making this easier, not giving me the words to do this. We’re in front of the doors now, I can see the brightly-lit lobby just beyond his head. Lobby with the mailboxes and elevators, announcements board, the newspaper stands, same shit as always. I flick my wide-eyed panic back to Ethan to tell him and -- and just fucking _can’t_.

I can’t tell him I’d rather die than go home with him, I can’t fucking do that to him. I can’t tell him, can’t do it, he’s been looking forward to this all day. He’s not lying or exaggerating, he’s genuinely happy to be home. He’s ready to be done with his vacation. I don’t fucking blame him, wasn’t much of a trip, he still had to spend it dragging me around. At least Monday he gets to leave me for a bit, gets to go back to the job that doesn’t make him cry, doesn’t make him sit around sighing, looking so tired he’s raccoon-eyed with it.

Told me in the cab, I remember him saying it, how he was even looking forward to work on Monday, saying hi to that cute receptionist he’s friends with, can’t remember her name right now but I know it. See her all the fucking time, she was at our wedding for fuck’s sake, going completely blank on her name because Ethan’s staring at me about to cry. Everything went so wrong for him today. I know he had a shit day because he had to spend it with me, and I feel like shit.

“We’re here,” he says. Small, anxious, like maybe I don’t know that. He’s desperate to keep me calm with what he thinks I want, what he thinks is going to help. “We’re home.”

I turn my head, look somewhere else. Whatever the fuck’s not him, not the lobby, maybe stare at the cab driver for a bit. We’re about to become nervous-nice best friends if I do this, if I tell Ethan I’m leaving. Probably enough cash in my wallet to pay for the cab to take me somewhere else, wherever isn’t here. Hotel, maybe.

I fumble a shaking hand over the door handle. Ethan shifts forward, jolts like he’s going to grab me except he doesn’t. If I’m leaving, if I need to leave, he’s not going to stop me. He knows he can’t. It’s flight-or-fight, and I won’t fight. Can’t fight, I have to roll over and take it. Fucking sucks, but that’s the way it has to be.

I tried to I warn him. I warned him I’d make the rest of his life miserable if he let me, I warned him I wasn’t going to try saving him anymore, he’s on his own. He can take me with him if he wants, pull my ass out of the fire and drag me to safety. I said I’d lay down and let him do it, and by-fucking-God if he didn’t jump at the chance. Jumped all over me saying yes, being a fucking idiot when navigators are supposed to be smart.

All I got to do is be there for him to come home to, only thing he wants me to do is stay with him. He’s willing to do all the rest, fucking works himself to the bone doing it, never even fucking complains about it like I do. Never hear him bitch and moan, never hear him whine about his worthless broken fighter. Smiles pretty all the time, says soft and stupid shit, acts like he loves it. Tells me he does. I know he loves me, wants me, needs me, goddammit. I’m not saying shit to him about what I can and can’t do, I’m just going to fucking do it.

Cool, bracing October air greets me outside. Deep breath helps. Getting out of the cab’s not so bad, looking out at the parking lot helps. Ethan’s bike parked next to my car, parked right where we left them, bet the cat’s up in the apartment right where we left her. Got Sunday waiting for me, got Ethan waiting for me. I guess it doesn’t matter if I can’t do this, I’m fucking doing it anyway. I’m going home.

I sat long enough that walking’s okay, need to watch my feet to focus but I got it. I force myself to walk around the back end of the cab, walk past where Ethan’s scrambling to get our luggage and pay the driver. I’d feel worse about not helping him, but I’m stumbling my ass into the lobby before I try running for my car instead. I left the keys in the apartment anyway, figured I wouldn’t need them, wasn’t like the car was going on the plane with us. I think if I tried getting behind the wheel like this, Ethan would call the cops to stop me.

Pretty amusing, actually, thinking of getting pulled over right outside the parking lot with Ethan watching, stumbling my way through a field sobriety test. There’s not enough nervous-nice in the world for me to convince a cop I’m good to drive. I know trying to drive right now would be same as announcing I’d like a car wreck for myself and a heart attack for Ethan, please, order me a double combo off the fuck up menu.

“Sacha?”

He’s coming inside after me, probably doesn’t like the way I’m staring at the call button for the elevator. I look over at him as I press the up arrow. “Yeah.”

He manages a smile, but the edges are crooked. He’s crooked, luggage hanging off him as he tries to hurry. “Everything - everything okay?”

I nod at him, bare my teeth in a way I hope’s nice and not a grimace. “Yeah. Yeah, Ethan. I’m fine.”

This might fucking kill me, but I’m doing it. I’m getting in this goddamn elevator with him. I stick my arm out to bully the doors from closing on him. He doesn’t even have to press the button for our floor, I’ll do that for him, too. I’m getting my ass back into that apartment if it kills me. I’ll spend all day Monday staring at the walls, talking to a deaf cat waiting for him to come home. I’ll do anything so he can come home to me like he wants.

Ethan smiles, leans his head into my shoulder. “Almost home,” he murmurs. “We’re almost there, baby.”

I put my arm around him. Don’t say anything, might come out wrong if I do. Might turn into me spilling my guts. I think he managed the whole shitty day without crying. I’m not taking that from him, not ruining this for him. I want him to write something nice in that journal of his, I want there to be something nice for him to remember about today.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Abel POV)

I stretch into warm sheets and remember it’s Sunday right as I’m waking up, so it’s a beautiful moment where my eyes stay closed, where I don’t have to get up or wonder if I overslept my alarm. Sunlight’s streaming in through the curtains, I can feel the warmth in the room that says I’ll start getting uncomfortable burrowed into all the bedding with Sacha. He’s better than a furnace sometimes, grumbles at me when I do it but still lets me poke my cold toes into him on chilly nights.

Neither poking toes nor stretching fingers find Sacha for me. Realizing I’m alone in the bed pulls me awake, gets my eyes open. Disappointment sinks my stomach, fear fills my mouth with ashes. His side of the bed’s empty, sheets half-heartedly flopped into place. I sit up further and only have to look as far as the nightstand before finding the first note. I pick up the jaunty green square with a small, sad smile.

Brushing my teeth, I find his second note stuck to the mirror. Bright neon pink, same message as the first. A third one in blazing highlighter-yellow greets me on the coffee table. Perched beside the note is the cat, her long plume of a tail wrapped around her feet. Essem’s looking toward the balcony, and my gaze cuts to the glass like I expect to see Sacha sitting there, even though I’m three notes into knowing he’s gone.

Only when I get close enough to pick up the note does Essem realize I’m in the room. Her ears and tail twitch, she rises up into a tip-toe stretch with a curious meow. I whisk my hand over her back and smile, thinking of her purring and rubbing all over Sacha last night once we finally stumbled in the front door.

It’s a bit silly, how much the cat likes Sacha. I don’t mind he’s her favorite, even though she and I spent a year together missing him. We spend a lot of time together wondering about Sacha, and sometimes I think she spends more time with Sacha than I do. She has the advantage of not having a job, not having any obligations or worries besides if someone’s refilled her food dish, if Sacha’s petting her or if she can sleep on him. If she wants to spend all day following Sacha around the apartment asking questions and not understanding the answers, she can.

“Think he’ll be back soon?” I ask Essem. She trills a meow at me, curious and plaintive, so I like to imagine she’s complaining about how I don’t know the answer. I have all these notes he left me, signs that he knows I’ll wake up wondering where he went, if he’ll be back. Neither of us likes the apartment being empty like this.  

Since I have the advantage over her of being able to hear Sacha’s keys, I’m turned around first. It gives it away though, pulls her attention toward the motion. Once she sees him at the door, Essem jumps off the table. She runs over meowing, chiding him for leaving her.

That’s another advantage she has over me. Sacha wouldn’t like it if I did the same, if I ran over and started crying at him. Not that I especially want to, not if he’s home within minutes of me realizing he left.

“Hey, stupid motherfucker.” Sacha grins as he nudges the cat out of the way so he can get through the door. Shopping bags hang from him in a lopsided, straining bulge, all the weight hefted opposite his bad leg.

He hates making two trips, refuses to buy more than he can carry in the basket. He knows if he can’t carry it to the register, he can’t carry it up from the car in one go. It causes an interesting survival of the fittest within the cramped confines of the grocery basket, Sacha abandoning one item to make room for another. Sometimes I try sending him with a list only to get told I’d put too much on it, no need for seven ingredients to make one dinner when he can fit a jar of spaghetti sauce and a box of noodles instead.

Seeing Sacha with groceries puts a smile on my face, fills my chest with a light, buoyant feeling. It’s not that I thought _going to the store_ was a lie, but Sacha can leave with one idea of where he’s going and end up somewhere else. Same as I didn’t think _be back soon_ was insincere, but sometimes Sacha and I have very different ideas about what ‘soon’ means.

Sacha glances into the apartment to find me watching, and his grin widens. My heart stutters with how happy Sacha looks at the sight of me, how bright his dark eyes become. I certainly don’t mind that he’s the cat’s favorite when I’m his favorite like this.

“Hey, sweetheart. I got breakfast.” He lifts his arm like doing a curl, plastic bags crinkling as he shows them off. He’s toting a gallon of milk in his other hand, the one also holding his keys. “I figured you wouldn’t want to wait for pizza.”

Sacha kicks the door closed and then starts for the kitchen with the grocery haul. His limp is barely noticeable today, the leg must not be bothering him despite all the excitement of yesterday. I suppose he did spend it mostly sitting, that must help. He’s multitasking, focused, in the kitchen putting things away as he calls out, “D’you get my note?”

I spent so long yesterday without him that my throat feels thick, wet heat stings into the corners of my vision. I look down at the three bright squares of paper in my hand, Sacha’s slanted scrawl telling me not to worry. _Going to the store, be back soon_. No indication of what time he left, and I don’t remember him getting out of bed, don’t even remember stirring in drowsy half-awareness like I do sometimes when he sneaks out like this.

I imagine he put effort into being quiet, more than usual, trying to let me sleep in as late as I wanted. I think he remembers coming home last night, when I barely remember what I said in the cab, about ordering pizza, the likely empty cabinets and fridge after a week of Aleks housesitting with permission to eat whatever he could find. It kept Sacha from worrying about Essem, he looked horrified when I suggested we board her at the vet’s office. It’s sweet, how much he likes her, even if he complains and acts like he’s not just as moonstruck with her as she is with him.

Essem’s up on the kitchen counter right now, whisking her tail into Sacha’s face as he tries to stack cans into the cabinet. His brow’s tight around the familiar shape of his scowl. I’m sure he has a terrible headache from taking too much of his medication. I’m a bit surprised he’s out of bed like this, focused like this.

Yesterday wore me out. Obviously, if I slept in past nine like this, but Sacha’s looking bright-eyed and energetic. I’m happy for him, relieved, all my fears bubbling away like a champagne toast. Whatever went wrong for him, I don’t think it’s something he’s going to dwell on, I don’t think it’s anything to drag him down into misery. I don’t think it’s my fault, like with the fire alarm. He might not even remember it, maybe it was nothing wrong after all.

I know those are the worst days for him, I know he’d rather be able to blame a fire alarm or fireworks or a crowd, anything other than his own mind betraying him. He hates when it’s just something nameless and indescribable, an unknown fear so absolute he can’t escape it, can’t find a way out besides hitting the emergency release, shutting down everything. I know those are the worst days for him, so my relief is a bitter cruelty. Nothing being wrong means it can’t be my fault, there was nothing I could have done differently.

Only when Sacha appears in front me carrying Essem do I realize I haven’t actually said anything to him yet. I’m still standing in the middle of the living room in my pajamas, hair uncombed, bleary-eyed like I’m the one suffering a maximum-strength hangover.

Sacha cocks his head at me, scratches the cat under her chin so she purrs. His expression is a concerned curiosity, a silent demand that I answer him about the notes. He’s worried about it, he left me three of them, he ran out to buy groceries so I didn’t have to do it, so I could sleep in like I talked about wanting. He’s trying hard to make up for yesterday, working so hard at doing all the right things today.

If I cry, Sacha might throw the cat at me.

He might leave.

I swallow, lick my lips, test a few smiles before finding one that works. I show him the three colorful squares in my hand. My voice is quiet, soft, warm to match my smile and the moment. “I got your notes, Sacha. Thanks for leaving them.”

He shrugs, uncomfortable but resigned about the fact I’m pointing out he did something nice for me. He drops the cat to the floor to get me in his arms instead, cups his hands over my ass to drag me against him. Sacha sways in close for a kiss, his lips parted in a smile right until the last moment. He kisses me deeply, a plunging possession that’s hungry, almost desperate.

Apology tangles into the press of his tongue, the gentle glide of his hand up my back. Tenderness slows his lips, he sets hand against my cheek. His thumb brushes under my eye, over the dry skin of my cheek. We separate for stares, smiles, come together again for a kiss.

Sacha grins, sharp and suggestive. He cages me close, gets me straddling his thigh. “Still on your honeymoon, princess. Figured you’d still be in bed when I got back.”

I laugh and settle my arms over his shoulders, the leather of his jacket crisp and cool from being outside. I play my fingers into his hair, lean in to kiss him. I love lazy mornings like this with Sacha, love our silly tradition of breakfast in bed on Sunday. It’s one of my favorite parts of our quiet little routine, my counted pattern of days. I’m so happy to be home with Sacha like this, makes yesterday so worth it, makes everything worth it, and I wonder if that’s why he was so insistent on coming home last night, when I was rebooking the flights.

Somehow I remember to stop kissing Sacha long enough to say, “I’ll go back to bed.”

“Fuck yeah, get going.” Sacha turns me around in his hands, gives me an encouraging push. He goes the other way, back into the kitchen.

I hear the cat with him asking all her questions, all her perky, snipping mews that he answers sickly-sweet and sharp. “What? What, motherfucker? What?”

Sacha grabs her up, starts muttering at her instead of bickering as he puts breakfast together. I lose sight of him in the hallway, but if I stand here he can’t see me either. Sometimes the two of them are loud enough to hear, but Essem’s quiet today. She’s likely purring at Sacha, content to watch him from the floor or counter. It could also be he’s working one-handed to keep carrying her.  

I listen for a minute or two. The fridge opening and closing, cabinets, bowls being set down, dry pouring -- cereal, it’s usually cereal when he brings home milk. I hurry back to bed before he catches me eavesdropping. 

Snuggling under the covers again to wait for Sacha to bring in breakfast is my favorite kind of waiting, the kind of waiting I certainly don’t mind. The cat rushes in first, tangling through his ankles. Sacha scowls at her for getting underfoot when his hands are full. She leaps onto the bed and smushes over my thighs to beat Sacha back to his pillow.

I take both bowls from Sacha to hold for him while he takes off his shirt, socks, his jeans as well before sliding into bed. He dumps the cat off his pillow, but she’s right back up in his lap again once he’s settled, and I wait for her to get settled too before handing Sacha his cereal. I get cozy with blankets and Sacha, the cat purring, a wonderful start to a wonderful day.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Cain POV)

“Let’s go for a walk.”

First words out of my mouth, don’t even let her get in the door. I’m already up on my feet, she’s barely got one foot inside. Bitch is in tight pants, sensible running shoes, light windbreaker, hair back in a jaunty tail -- I’m not surprising her with my shit today. Hardly ever get to surprise her, she barely blinks at my eager assault, all this restless energy I’ve got tumbling around and she knows it, she’s always a fucking know-it-all.

Gives me a bland smile, smooth and unruffled. “Hi, Sacha. Have a nice trip?”

Beth steps back with the door open, gesturing me out into the brisk morning air for our walk. I’m her first client of the day, first session slot on Monday’s mine, I drop off Ethan at work and come straight here, wait for her in the waiting room since I’ve got the key. Usually don’t have to wait long, since she knows I’m waiting, nice enough to show up early sometimes even though she’s not on the clock until nine and Ethan starts at eight.

Shrug my answer, limp past her down the steps to the sidewalk. I’m going to try surprising her anyway, surprise with good news before admitting all the bad shit she’s expecting.

Beth leaves the door unlocked, separate lock on the exam room, her office beyond that, nothing in the waiting room to steal, just chairs and shit, nothing I can’t sit around messing with waiting for her. She joins me on the sidewalk, her hands stuck in the windbreaker pockets, looking up at me. She’s shorter than Ethan, maybe shorter than Aleks, even shorter on days she’s in sneakers and not heels.

Thinking of what I’m about to say gets me smirking, ruins the fucking surprise. I know I’m an asshole for being smug about Beth looking worried and trying not to look it. Sure as shit doesn’t stop me from saying it, spent way too long thinking about it, thought about this moment over and over again looking forward to it. She ought to know how much I like being an asshole by now.

In my head I got to look at the aquarium for this, watch the blue glow of water, colorful darting little fish all too stupid to know they’re trapped. I figured I’d piss her off, fake my zone-out stare, act like I’m all broken up about it. Instead I got to do it standing there grinning, looking crazier than if I was drooling.

“Hotel caught fire.”

Might end up being the best part of my day, how fucking surprised she is. Her bland expression masks most of it, but I know her. I know I surprised her. A slow steady blink, the backward lean of her head, the way her weight shifts -- I surprise the shit out of her, don’t even need to explain the good news, pretty fucking obvious with the way I’m grinning as I say it.

I ruin the whole goddamn thing by laughing, cackling this loud obnoxious whoop because I’m such an asshole. “An actual fucking fire,” I tell her. “Swear to God, ask Ethan if you don’t believe me. Damn thing caught fire, sent everyone scrambling to get out.”

“What - what did you do?”

Beth’s fumbling through her recovery, trying to remember she’s a paid professional even if we’re probably a half hour shy of her actually getting paid for this. Clock doesn’t start until nine, I don’t even have to say anything to her yet, don’t have to answer her dumb questions.

“I got the fuck out. No way I’m sticking around for shit literally on fire.” I take pity on her, try to sound less like I’m laughing in her fucking face. “Some dickbag in the kitchen fucked up the crepes. Hotel was fine, the crepes didn’t make it. Dickbag chef might’ve gotten fired.”

I’ve surprised her enough that she’s slow on the follow-through, and even then it’s just her motioning along the sidewalk to us moving. “Which way?”

I jerk my head, get us both turned and walking. Her walking, me limping -- not so bad today, Monday’s usually aren’t so bad despite how much I hate having them waiting for me. Always makes Sunday night weird, makes me wish it was Saturday night still. I like Saturdays, that's my favorite day of the week.  

Now that I’ve gotten my kicks surprising her, I start over at the beginning. Easier if I explain things first rather than suffer through answering her dumb, nosy questions, and I know I can’t just leave it at _hotel caught fire_ forever. She'll want the rest eventually. 

“I’d left Ethan at the pool, went up to the room for something, so the fire alarm goes off while he’s still at the pool, and I’m somewhere else.”

Head down, watching my feet even though I’m clear-headed, no drugs except caffeine from stealing sips out of Ethan’s coffee thermos. It’s not one of the days we try doing a walk even though I’m stumbling.

“I didn’t have shit on me, either. No phone, no keys, no pills, no navigator, fuck nothing, actual goddamn emergency happening, and I’ve got nothing. Except knowing what to do, I guess. I more or less kept my shit together.”  

My shoulders hunch, a shrug even though I know I can’t leave it at that. Easier if I just fucking explain it, keep talking so she can’t interrupt with her bullshit. She’s not even getting paid yet, bitch can go sit inside and wait for nine if she doesn’t want to hear my dumb ranting.

“Getting out was okay, I didn’t really think about it. Just, in the hallway walking, alarm goes off, I’m gone. It was raining out, I’m outside in the rain and getting the fuck away from the fire, and then I realize what the fuck is actually happening. I realize I left Ethan somewhere.”

I stop walking, she stops walking, no aquarium to look at, look at her dumb face instead. That polite look of interest like I’m telling dull stories at a party, glass of wine in hand as she listens. After a minute of that, she prompts me to get my shit together. “What did you do?”

“Freak out,” I say. Laugh, even though it’s not fucking funny. “It wasn’t like I’d just bailed on the grocery store check-out line or sitting down for dinner, it was an actual emergency. I didn’t know about the crepes yet, Mike told me that, this was just that alarm. A fire, a real fire, and I didn't know how bad it'd get, how bad it was. But, hotel’s are safe, and it wasn’t like the fucking pool was on fire, and Ethan’s way smarter than me. I wasn’t stupid enough to stick around for a fire, no way in hell he would.”

I hate thinking about this, hate more trying to tell her about it. Scared the hell out of me, realizing Ethan wasn’t with me, realizing I didn’t have shit with me to tell him where I was. Beth’s looking at me like we ought to be having this conversation inside, rather than on the sidewalk. Don’t fucking blame her, never a good sign if I’ve stopped walking to say something.

This is supposed to be my fucking good news, it’s what I started with, always like starting with good news first. I get my ass moving, get focused. 

“I knew I needed to stay close, stay near the hotel, so Ethan could find me. I walked around to the front doors, figured that’d be a good spot to wait. I kept thinking about not having my phone, my pills, Ethan, I was really freaking out. I knew I couldn’t run inside to look for him, I knew if I went running off I might get fucked sideways-lost. Yeah, it’s an island, I’ve got my dog tags, but I don’t know anyone there besides Ethan, I don’t have my phone, my wallet, no money for a cab. Nowhere to go except the hotel, and the hotel’s on fucking fire, the goddamn hotel _is_ the fire, I can’t run from the fire to somewhere safe when safety is the thing on fucking fire.”

“Sacha.” Brisk, short strides like she’s exercising on a treadmill, ponytail bouncing back and forth with it. "Sacha, you did the right thing."

Seeing her not-jog to keep pace with me reminds me to slow the fuck down. Leg’s doing fine today, bet I could run laps around her if I wanted. Stand there glaring at her, like I’m pissed at her for pointing out I was being a stupid motherfucker, running my mouth and my feet too fast. I know better, I know not to freak Beth out like that.

“It sucked.”

“I bet.”

“Not even at the worst part yet,” I warn her. “You don't get it. I kept my shit together. Ethan’s the one who lost it.”

I don’t know why I thought anything I did right would surprise her more than the bad news. Can’t surprise her with my bullshit, my certified lunacy with her rubber-stamp approval. Ethan keeps his shit so tight together he manages to make it smell pretty, smiles all the fucking time like he loves it, loves coming home to pick up whatever mess I make of the day.

“Not even like a little lost it,” I tell her. “He totally fucked up. He thought it was a real fire. Ran around screaming for Cain. He went looking for Cain even though I was outside waiting on him. Well, he was wrong. I didn't fuck it up. I kept it together, Beth, I had fuck-nothing, in a total worse-case scenario, and I kept it together."

Gets me smiling, thinking of it, sure as shit not funny then but kind of amusing now. Less amusing, as I think about what I got to tell her next. 

“By the time the firefighters showed up and Ethan still hadn't found me, I knew I needed to get help. I was really freaking out, total panic attack. It was bad. I scared the crap out of this guy, Mike, I hit him with my nervous-nice bullshit way too fast. But he was good about things, real nice guy. I had him sit me down and talk me through it. Ambulance showed up, that was real fucking embarrassing, but I guess it wasn’t so bad. It sucked, but lots of things suck.”

Beth smiles over at me, bemused expression, nice easy walking pace now. I watch the sidewalk go under my boots. Those sensible sneakers of hers keeping pace with me, light and easy steps, nice morning for this. I finish out the walk telling Beth about Ethan showing up useless and terrified, sobbing, how much that sucked. I hate making him scared like that, hate he can’t trust me, know he can’t trust me, hate making him think of why that is, what I might do, what awful shit I’ve already done to him that makes him not trust me, makes me not trust myself either.

Sun in our eyes, good excuse to keep my head down. Tell Beth the bad news, losing my shit over an awkward breakfast, panicking about making Ethan happy, popped too many sedatives in the ambulance and ruined two whole days of his hard-earned vacation. I got enough bad news that we head inside to talk about it, enough bad news I’m still pacing back and forth behind the loveseat trying to explain when time runs out.

I didn’t even get around to my hissy-fit over flying home, spent the whole time bitching about shit I already know what to do about, shit I’m not even that worried about. Can’t do anything other than work hard at it, stay focused, try my best not to fuck up too much and just accept the fact I’m going to anyway. 

Beth’s checking her watch, time to shut up. Sit scowling at my hands, no fucking idea why I think it’s smart to end on bad news all the time. I didn’t even get to the worst part, my stupid meltdown, that hell of a fucking security line I stood in for too damn long.

“So how was the trip?” she asks. “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah.” I try not to sound sulky, try not to mumble. “I took Ethan snorkeling.”

“Was it fun?”

I look over at the aquarium. She asks the dumbest fucking questions, I can’t believe she gets paid for this shit. “Yeah. It was fun.”

“I’m glad you had fun, Sacha. I’m sure Ethan really enjoyed spending that time with you.” She gets to her feet, prompting me to get the fuck out of her office. Someone else gets her at ten, my time’s up. “I’ll see you Thursday?”

Asking it, even though she damn well knows. See her every Thursday, every Monday, isn’t like I’ve ever missed a session. I guess I don’t blame her for asking, way I ran my mouth the whole time, made her run around keeping pace with me. 

“Yeah. I’ll see you Thursday.” Guess my bad news can wait until then.

Beth walks me to the door. “Do you have plans for today?”

Friendly tone, just being friendly now, time’s up, don’t have to answer her, don’t have to be honest. I do it anyway, shrug and say, “Go home, wait for Ethan.”

Sometimes I lie, tell her I’m planning to hit up the store, that I’ve got chores picked out, tell her the same lies I tell myself and tell Ethan when he asks in the car, always asks me what I plan to do on Mondays like he doesn’t already know the fucking answer. Same thing I do every Monday, even if I tell myself I won’t, I’ll do something else, I won’t just go straight home and sit there for seven hours doing fuck nothing except talking to the cat.

Essem must like Mondays, selfish bitch probably loves the fact I burst in the door like having ran the whole damn way back, desperate like I’ve been gone forever instead of a few hours. Always go find her deaf ass, wake it up if she’s sleeping, bully her into waiting with me so I don’t have to wait alone. Bet she likes it, her purring always seems twice as loud, bet she likes it even though Mondays are usually when I do shit like trim her nails, bathe her, brush her, I’ll fucking murder Ethan the day he comes home early enough to catch me fussing at her like this.

Ethan’s usually home early on Mondays, always leaves a little early if he can. He knows how much I hate sitting here waiting on him, knows I’m always at home waiting for him on Mondays. Doesn’t stop him from asking, doesn’t stop Beth from asking, someday I’ll surprise them both by doing something else I guess. Someday, but not today.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Abel POV)

I answer the phone without actually pulling my attention from what I’m typing, cell phone tucked into the crook of my neck. “Hey.”

“Hey, hot stuff.” Bright, eager, energetic -- “Are you busy?”

I pause and glance at the computer clock. A little past ten, too early for lunch, but it’s Tuesday. I can guess why Sacha’s asking if I’m busy on a Tuesday morning. “No, not especially. I’ll be right down?”

“Yeah,” he says. “See you soon.”

I take the time to finish my thoughts, get myself to a better stopping point. It’s a delicate balance of letting Sacha wait long enough that he has something to do without making him wait too long. I know how much he dislikes waiting. Patience has never been one of Sacha’s virtues.

Silly as it is, I stop by the restroom to check myself in the mirror, fluff my hair a bit, test out smiles before finding one I like. I don’t know why I bother, because soon as I reach the lobby and see Sacha leaned into the receptionist’s desk, an entirely new smile takes over. I’m sure I look like an idiot, even though it looks like they’re flirting. Sacha’s wholly focused on her, his toothy grin matching her giggly smile and flushed cheeks. I try to sneak closer from the elevators without either of them noticing.

Sacha folds his arms over the desk, leans in further. He snags a fresh-dyed curl for closer examination and then flicks it aside. “Yeah, I like it. What’d your boyfriend say?”

Caroline giggles. “Nothing, yet. I’m not sure he’s noticed.”

He scoffs. “Hard not to notice. I thought you’d gotten shit-canned at first, didn’t even recognize --” He straightens from the desk, jolts like having been caught, and then his face lights up, that obvious rush of how happy he is to see me something so breathtaking. “Ethan!”

I almost stop walking before my steps quicken instead. The wide spread of his smile makes it hard to remember I’m at work, that I shouldn’t throw my arms around Sacha and kiss him right here in the lobby. It’s one arm around him, a quick sideways-hug, the whisper of his lips into my hair while Caroline watches with a knowing smirk.

A cardboard to-go cup scribbled with her name on it sits beside her keyboard, and Sacha’s got another beside him on the counter. He moves it closer, like I can’t see my name’s written on it, like he doesn’t show up most Tuesdays around this time with a chai latte for Caroline and a soy latte for me. Sometimes I’m busy, but I try not to schedule meetings on Tuesday mornings if I can help it.

“Thanks.” I smile and slide open the plastic slot on the cup. We step a little ways from Caroline’s desk so she can resume working. I meander slowly toward the doors with Sacha. “Any plans for today?”

He shrugs, seems reluctant to answer. “Thought I might go bug Aleks for a bit.”

I offer Sacha a smile. “Oh, that’ll be fun. You can give him the souvenirs we brought back.”

Another shrug, but the corner of his mouth is twisted in a smile. He’s watching me, looking at me, quiet intensity that says he wants to keep doing it, doesn’t want to leave. We both know I have to go back upstairs, that I can’t wander away from my desk for long.

“Got plans for lunch?” he asks.

“Caroline and I thought about trying the new sub place that opened up nearby,” I say.

He nods. It’s hollow but polite, something he knows he should say more than something he wants to say. “Sounds fun.”

I’d invite him along, but if he’s going to see Aleks then I know he won’t be back in time for lunch. I smile instead, take a sip of my latte. The gesture draws his attention, gets him smirking, so I look at Sacha like we’re the only two people in the lobby.

Hushed, as if I were decked in lace and fantasy for him. “Thanks for coming to see me, Sacha.”

Hunger gleams in the sudden feral tilt of his grin. I glance to Caroline’s desk, but she’s busy passing out visitor badges to a trio of men in suits. I look back to Sacha and offer him another flirty smile, sultry bedroom eyes, I’ll die of embarrassment the day she catches me doing this.

My trace my fingers lightly over his, tease my touch over the back of his hand. “I’ll see you at home tonight?”

“Yeah,” Sacha breathes. He draws me close for a slow, savoring kiss. I don’t know why I bother to check my enthusiasm when saying hello, considering the way Sacha kisses me goodbye.

I stand by the doors to watch the parking lot, the street, the bit of driveway. Sacha glances back from the sidewalk, and I lift my hand in a bit of a wave. Someday I’ll ask Caroline to help test my theory that the glare on the glass keeps Sacha from seeing me. He turns and keeps going, head down and shoulders hunched like he’s walking into the headstrong wind of a storm despite the calm, pleasant sunshine.

Caroline’s gesturing for me to come closer as I try sneaking past her desk unnoticed. Once I’m in range, she breaks into a teasing smile, a giggly burst of whispering. “He’s so tan! I’m glad one of you looks like you spent a week on the beach.”

I glance to make sure we’re alone, lean closer as if I’ve got a work-related question for her, rather than friendly gossip. “Well, Sacha was more interested in putting sunscreen on me than letting me work on my tan. Good thing, too. My luck I would’ve come home looking like a lobster.”

She laughs. “I’m the same way, straight from white to red. Hey, are you -- Hold on, don’t go anywhere.” Caroline snatches the lit extension on her phone, gives her polite spiel, perkily redirects the call, and then hangs up. Another call comes in for her to handle a deftly as the first. I sip my latte while I wait.

“Okay,” she says. “What was I -- hold on.” The phone goes off again, and I grin at her. Caroline rolls her eyes and waves me away from her desk, because the second light’s blinking now. I keep telling her it’s a coincidence, but she’s convinced my presence summons the phone to ring.

I return to my desk, return to my work, and smile like an idiot at the cardboard cup with my name on it. First time he did this, Sacha showed up on foot. Day three of him being home, he didn’t have his car yet. I hadn’t want to leave him alone in the apartment so soon but he insisted, his doctor insisted, everyone told me a stable routine was what he needed, what would be best for him. They told me to go to work like normal, as if the man I’d waited years for wasn’t at home waiting for me.  

Poor Caroline, she called my desk to tell me. I panicked on her, ran for the stairwell, burst across the lobby only to find him looking meek and guilty, hopelessly sweet with coffee from home in hand. The coffee was ice cold like the rest of him after having walked for hours just to reach my office. He hadn’t meant to scare me, explained the cold didn’t really bother him, he felt fine, his leg wasn’t bothering him. He apologized for the coffee getting cold, tried to make a joke out of suing the thermos manufacturer, tried so desperately to keep me from having a breakdown at work over something he did. We sat on the front steps of the building together, Sacha letting me cry into his shoulder, blistering January wind buffeting us.

But that night we talked about Sacha getting a car, that weekend we went to pick one out -- or, rather, he picked one out. I probably would have gotten a car with more than two doors on it. I try not to worry about him on the road. He’s never done anything to violate my trust, never made me fear it’ll be like with the motorcycle. Years ago he crashed on purpose, so it took his doctor’s assurance to really convince me Sacha could handle having twenty-four hour unsupervised access to a car. It’s terrifying sometimes despite my best efforts, always makes me anxious when I know he’s on the road like this.

The text from Aleks arrives just as I’m waiting for Caroline to slide into her jacket for lunch. Simple and direct, _Sacha’s here_.

I type back quickly, _OK thanks!_

No response from him, but that’s typical. It’s the middle of his workday, too, even if he gets to spend it lounging around home rather than stuck in an office. A year and a half ago, while Sacha was still in treatment, Aleks moved from the colonies to Earth. It’s nice having him close, nice that it meant he could start visiting Sacha, even nicer that Sacha can go visit him now.

On the walk to lunch, Caroline asks if I have plans for the weekend, offers a double-date with her new boyfriend for Saturday. I tell her truthfully we don’t have plans, that I’ll ask Sacha about it. I text him and get a lazy, apathetic response back as we’re sitting down with our food. I look up movie times with Caroline, tentative plans confirmed for now. She knows all plans are tentative until Sacha and I actually show up, she knows not to take it personally if I cancel last-minute.

“Rob likes action movies,” she says. Her thumb flicks over the screen. “Spy thrillers and stuff like that.”

I hum, non-committal. “There’s a romantic comedy that looks cute.”

Caroline tucks her phone back into her purse. “I doubt I can talk him into that, Ethan. He’s already going on a double date with a gay couple, I’m not sure how much more I want to challenge his masculinity.”

Heat rushes into my cheeks even though I know she’s teasing. I mumble my response, get so flustered that I forget what the conversation was about. Caroline laughs and apologizes, teases me further, declares me too adorable for the way I blush, so I threaten to forward all my calls to her desk for the rest of the afternoon.

We walk back chatting about my trip, the honeymoon, she’s nice enough not to tease me for blushing as I talk about how wonderful it all was, how much it meant to me that I could go anywhere like that with Sacha, spend time with him like that. She sighs wistfully, tells me I’m lucky, and I don’t correct her. It’s not luck. It’s hard work and dedication.

I return to my desk and smile at the empty coffee cup from that morning still sitting on my desk. I won’t throw it out until Friday. A little before three I text Sacha with the excuse of asking about dinner, what he might want to eat. I’m actually trying to remind him of the time. It’s a two hour drive from Aleks’ place, he needs to leave now if he wants to be home when I get home. Not long after three, Aleks texts to assure me Sacha left on time.

I don’t hear from him until I’m turning my office light, almost about to leave. Sacha texts me with, _i got dinner_.

No indication if that means he’s already ate, plans to cook, or simply picked up something on the way. I have no idea what it means except that Sacha’s home, and I don’t want to keep him waiting. I hurry downstairs to the lobby and walk with Caroline out to her car. Sacha likes to drop me off in the mornings, but he never quite manages to come pick me up again. It’s just easier if I plan to get a ride home and let Sacha picking me up be a rare, happy surprise.

 _Coming home now_ , I text him. I decide to add a little emoticon heart to the end, because he’s never told me not to, never sat me down and explained something awkward about it.

I get my favorite text back from Sacha, the one I always love getting, the one that makes me smile for the whole rest of the drive.

_see you soon_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Cain POV)

Wednesdays are the worst, they’re my least favorite day. I fucking hate them, piece of shit middle of the week with nothing to do except wait. Tuesdays suck, too, but I try keeping busy, usually feel like I ought to do something after Monday. Tuesdays I wake up thinking I’ll get my shit together, I’ll run errands and do chores, take Ethan coffee, fill up my day with nice, useless crap.

By Wednesday though I’m sick of it, disgusted with myself for whatever banal waste of life I managed on Tuesday. Sometimes I don’t even get out of bed to drive Ethan to work. If I’m going to have a bad day, it’s probably a Wednesday. Usually spend Thursday afternoon having to explain it to Beth, spend Thursday morning thinking how I’ll do it.

Not today, though, not this week. Not after my meltdown, the way Ethan’s been practically skipping everywhere looking so happy to be home. I drag myself out of bed, act like I give a shit about whatever Ethan wants to talk about on the drive. I tell him I’ll come pick him up, tell him to be outside at five on the dot for a ride home.

Ethan’s expression has a frozen sheen to it, icy calm saying he’d be less worried if we’d parted ways with me under the covers bitching and moaning. That’s a normal Wednesday, not this bullshit where I’m going out of my way to act like it’s some other day of the week.

“Okay.” He’s slow with it, cautious, breaking the ice with a soft smile. “Did you have plans for today?”

“Yup.”

Ethan stares at me, because I never answer like that, don’t even know what the fuck kind of answer that is for him. Yeah, he’s the dumbass who asks it like a yes/no question, so really he’s getting what he deserves, but I know better. I know he’d rather hear me say what my plans are, rather than leaving it at that. I’m not sure how to tell him my plan for today doesn’t go further than _do something_.

“Okay,” he says again. Smiles, real nervous, before leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Well, have fun. I’ll see you at five?”

I flash him my teeth, grimace something I don’t think’s as nice-looking as I want. “Yup.”

Ethan’s almost too nervous to get out of the car. He glances at his office building and says, “Okay,” like it’ll help.

“Might go to the store.”

His eyes flick to me. Relief sweeps his expression, melts his smile into something real. “Okay. If you do, pick up microwave popcorn? We’re almost out.”

Shrugging at him seems safe, seems like a Wednesday-enough response. Ethan kisses my cheek again before hopping out of the car. He turns to wave from the steps, hurries inside before he’s late.

I sit there another ten minutes, in case he forgot something. He never comes back out, no matter how long I wait, but this is one of the rare times I like waiting. I like watching the doors to see if he’s going to come back for anything, I like sitting there thinking he might. I’ve thought about being an asshole, intentionally steal his phone to make him come back for it, but I can’t do that. I know I can’t do shit like that to him.

I’d sit here in my car all day if I could, easy way to make sure I’m back at five to pick him up. I thought about it, tried it a few times, pulled my car around into the parking lot to wait. Security guard that patrols the lot, he’s a nice enough guy, he said it’d be okay so long as Ethan got me a parking permit. Beth said no, asked her before asking Ethan, first month back and everything making me nervous, terrified of fucking it up, wanted to make sure Beth thought it was okay first and bitch said no, said I can’t sit in my car all day at Ethan’s work waiting for him.

Fucking Wednesdays. Nothing to do except wait. No session, no plans. I can’t bug Aleks two days in a row, can’t bring coffee two days in a row. I always do this, always blow my ideas on Tuesday for shit to do that isn’t at the apartment.

I only suggested the store to calm Ethan down, but I go anyway. I park my car, go inside, get a basket, limp into the aisles. Sometimes I take my time, wander around reading the labels, looking for new shit I haven’t seen yet. I like getting new stuff, fuck brand loyalty. I’ll get a different brand each time, drives Ethan nuts.

Store’s okay, store’s not so bad, store’s easy, sometimes I’ll spend all morning wandering the store without anyone bothering me or me bothering anyone. Same store every time, makes it even easier. Some of the workers know me, usually same people working the morning shift, store manager knows me.

Had to explain to him why the fuck I was sitting in my car waiting for the store to open too many Sundays in a row, had to work my nervous-nice bullshit real fast to keep him from calling the cops. I explained to him I didn’t mean any harm, I just wanted to come inside like normal once they opened, how sorry I was for him having to come talk to me. Nearly couldn’t fucking do the store anymore after that, but he was nice about it, told me it was okay, introduced me to the workers so they’d know it was okay, now sometimes they’ll wave at my car if I’m sitting there early waiting on them to open, say hi to me when they unlock the doors so I can come inside.  

I like going early, less crowded that way, usually just old ladies tottering around. Everyone moving slow, no hurry, everyone taking their time, nice and quiet in the mornings. Afternoons it gets busy, weekends it gets busy, but weekday mornings and Sunday mornings real early, that’s the best time to do the store. Sometimes I get asked to pull shit down from tall shelves, carry heavy bags of cat food bigger than someone’s grandma out to a car. Not like I’m doing anything with my time otherwise.   

Not on a Wednesday, though. Fuck taking my time on a Wednesday, fuck wandering around looking at shit. I head straight for where the popcorn’s at, get it for Ethan like he asked. Nothing else on the list, I did the store on Sunday. Usually I do the store again on Fridays, date night, every other week I get a bottle of wine. I like date night, like Fridays almost as much as Saturdays, but I’m only on Wednesday, I’m only halfway through the week.

Head down, limping fast, watching my feet and not where I’m going. I deserve this one. Grocery cart shatters into my hip, thigh, trips up my ankles, checks me hard like a tackle into the linoleum floor. I go sprawling, ungraceful and ungainly. The basket bounces, clatters, spills its guts for everyone to see. Fuck nothing in it except boxes of microwave popcorn. Only goddamn thing on the list, I put five boxes in the basket and now they’re all over the floor, same as me.

This fucking bitch ran her cart right into me. Some wrinkly old woman, a white haired bitty fluttering in distress. This is it, this is how I’m going back, it’s all over. Someone’s going to have to explain to Ethan what happened, how they found me, surrounded by microwave popcorn beating the shit out of someone’s sweet little old grandma.

No, I can’t, I can’t lose my shit, not over this, not here, I’m in the middle of the fucking grocery store on a Wednesday. Not even two fucking weeks of doing the marriage thing, not even a year of doing the real world, normal shit, trying to get popcorn for Ethan like he asked. I can’t freak out on this old woman. I can’t even cuss at her, I can’t even fucking breathe.

She’s apologizing, fretting, bet she feels real fucking guilty for how I’m on the floor, how I’ve managed rolling over but nothing more than that, shuddering and wheezing like a sick dog. I’m not hurt, ankle stings like a bitch, leg on fire -- leg’s fine, I’m fine, this is fine, no, shit, it’s fucking not, I’m really freaking out, need to leave, need to stop, need this all to fucking stop because I can’t handle it, fucking can’t do this, can’t handle this, can’t!

Focus. Fucking focus.

One thing at a time. One goddamn thing at a time, focus.

Still on the floor, gasping and groaning, need to stop and explain to someone I’m not hurt, bitch didn’t break my fucking leg, bad leg’s not her fault, nothing 911 can do about the bad leg so no point calling. Can’t explain shit if I can’t breathe, maybe focus on that first instead, don’t need to explain anything if I just leave, so maybe do that first, focus on leaving, fucking can’t leave if I can’t get up, maybe focus on that first.

Fuck, focus on something. Get help, do something that helps, shit, people trying to help but doing it wrong, stop them. Not hurt, everything’s fine, it was a fucking accident, my fault, was watching my feet instead of where I was going. Piece of shit get it together, focus.

“S’fine!” Snarling, I can’t fucking snarl at people trying to help me, I know that. Focus first on breathing, calming down, think of the apartment, the floor plan, exact colors and details.

I focus on Essem’s brush, remember on Monday running my thumb over the slick, plastic bristles, remember the way I noticed a few of the rounded ends were missing, how I thought about maybe she needed a new brush. I bet they sell cat brushes at the regular store, no need to try going somewhere new by myself, in fact I remember exactly where in the aisle they have brushes. Same aisle as where I get her food, carry those big bags for nice old ladies sometimes, I ought to get her a new brush. I know where they are, I’ve seen them here before.

“It’s fine.” I can breathe, I got breathing managed, that’s letting me get words working, an explanation going. “Wind knocked out of me.”

Shitty explanation, shaky explanation, I don’t know what the fuck that even means, where I think I’m going with that kind of bullshit. I’ve got to get off the floor before I can start convincing anyone I’m okay, but that’s going to be hard, leg’s on fire -- no, leg’s fine, just sore, took a bad tumble is all. Grocery store, old woman fluttering, everything’s fucking fine. Focus.

I get my eyes open, had them winced shut, but I got this. I can do this. I get my eyes open and realize I’m face-down on the floor, hands over the back of my neck.

Shit.

A hole opening up beneath me would be just fan-fucking-tastic right now. Colteron warship out of nowhere to blow me up, that’d be fine too. Nearly anything other than being caught doing this bullshit where I’ve rolled over to start taking punches. Can’t fight, I know that, have to roll over and get my hands where everyone can see them, go limp and passive so I won’t get hurt, won’t hurt anyone. Let them knock me out and take me somewhere quiet to wait, it’s fine.

Slowly I pull my hands off the back of my neck. I’m shaking, sweaty, everyone staring at me, trying to help, no one sure how to help. Don’t fucking blame them, I’m doing shit wrong. Center of goddamn attention, lying prone on the floor like I’m expecting to get tranquilized, restrained, hauled off to padded walls drooling.

That old woman’s got the store manager with her. Holy shit this is a mess. I don’t even know what the fuck to do, what the hell to say. Old lady’s still trying to apologize, trying to explain about not seeing me, bet she can’t see shit, thick glasses, hunched back, barely fucking tall enough to inch her cart along through the aisles like a battering ram.

Store manager crouching down next to me, hand out like either to keep me down or help me up, not fucking sure which. He’s looking concerned, don’t blame him. Knows I’m crazy, already explained it to him so I wouldn’t get arrested for watching the store, scaring the teenage girls he’s got running the registers. I didn’t mean to scare them, I wasn’t trying to be crazy, I just like sitting in my car watching stuff, watching people, I just wanted to buy some microwave popcorn, I didn’t want all this shit to happen.

“I’m okay.”

Blurting it out, shotgun burst, scramble to my feet. Store manager grabs my arm to help, I nearly fall on my fucking face anyway, nearly knock a display over. Boxes of microwave popcorn all over the place.

I got to explain this, saying the wind got knocked out of me doesn’t work, no one freaks out like that for getting knocked over. If someone actually called the fucking paramedics I’m done, that’s it, Ethan’s never letting me go to the store by myself again, I’m never going to the store again, I’m calling Beth and telling her fuck it, I’m done, this is over, get the straightjacket, clear my bed for me, I’m going back where it’s safe.  

I can’t explain this, can’t do it, no idea what the fuck to say, too nervous to be nice. Stammer like a fucking idiot, “Sorry, I’m - I’m okay. I’m s-sorry.”

Being nice anyway, too scared not to be nice, not really sure getting terrified like this is nice for anyone. Sure as shit isn’t nice for me, doesn’t look nice for that old lady with the way I’m stumbling over myself trying to get away. She’s looking terribly confused, bystanders looking confused, scared, backing away.

No way they’re letting me back in the store after this. I step on one of the popcorn boxes, burst the cardboard at the seams. Breaking shit means buying it, no way they’re letting me come back. I’ll need to find a new store. Store manager’s got his hands up, maybe trying to catch me so I don’t fall, maybe trying to catch me so I can’t run, I need to stop trying to look everywhere and focus.

I know the exits, know the layout of the building, I’ve spent enough mornings wandering around looking at shit. Two fire exit doors, one of them in the back next to the restrooms, closest exit, but I never asked the store manager if that’d be okay. Fire exit doors have alarms sometimes, aren’t supposed to be used, I know that. Front doors, automatic doors, sometimes there’s a half-second delay between me wanting through and them opening up.

Side door, says do not exit but I see people doing it all the time. It’s next to the self-check lanes, I see people go out that way all the time, no alarms, no fuss. Not automatic, push to exit, no delay, don’t have to worry about the delay, don’t have to be scared I won’t be able to get out.

Oh, fuck me -- being outside doesn’t help, nowhere to go, can’t fucking drive like this. I’m shuddering for breath, sweaty, leg hurts. I can’t stay here, gotta keep going. Someone’s going to come looking for me, I’m going to have to explain this. I broke that box of popcorn, means I need to pay for it, but I can’t do that right now. I fucked this up. I fucked up going to the store, I fucked it up bad, I broke something, did someone call the paramedics or was someone just talking about doing it while I was huddled on the floor shaking, I don’t remember, fuck me.

Don’t think about it, don’t think about how I fucked up, just focus on fixing it, focus on getting away, get somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet, no people, somewhere I can calm the fuck down. Can’t do shit otherwise, I know that.

About the time I don’t think I can run anymore, I realize I’ve probably ran far enough. No one chasing me, nothing around, just empty streets, parked cars, nice houses. I shudder to a halt, stagger and stumble with my hand groping for something even though I know there’s nothing. I try not to, collapse hard anyway, fall and scrape my hands on the sidewalk.

I lay there panting, pick my ass up before someone sees. Nasty red hashmarks on my palms, everything shaking. No idea where the fuck I am. I ran off and left my car in the parking lot -- Fuck, store manager knows me, knows what my car looks like. I broke that popcorn, ran off without paying for it, I can’t stop thinking about how bad I’ve fucked this up.  

Fucking whimpering I’m so freaked out, I can hear myself doing it. I need to stop, need to calm down. I need to keep focusing on what to do that’s not freaking out. I dig the orange prescription bottle out of my pants pocket with shaking hands, smear blood on the safety cap as I wrench it between my palms.

Two or three, that’s my debate, so I take two right away and let myself think about the third. I turn the bottle around in my hands while I wait. I wipe my face with my shirt, focus on deep breaths rather than panting, try to calm down.

Just wait, remember Ethan telling me to wait, good idea to wait for two to kick in before deciding if I need three. I can’t take a nap on the fucking sidewalk, I know that, I know taking three is going to knock me out, only do three if I’m with someone who can help, if I’m somewhere safe. Not safe here, I know that, one of the reasons why I’m freaking out, I’m not even in my car for this. I ran off and left my car in the parking lot.

But, sitting here is okay. Here’s okay, it’s okay, not so bad sitting here. Not that unsafe, nice enough looking neighborhood, nice enough day, I’m wearing my jacket and it’s sunshine, nice weather. Pleasant breeze, sky’s a forever kind of blue that’s real pretty. I get my phone out, hands not shaking so much, heart not thumping painful in my chest anymore, breathing’s getting better. Sitting helps, knowing my meds are going to kick in helps.

Slowly I start swiping through photos on my phone, force myself to only think about the pictures, focus on what I’m looking at. Ethan smiling on the beach, Ethan holding the cat, lots of nice photos of Ethan smiling saved on my phone for me to look through like this. Hard to be scared about stuff looking at him, easy to remember it’ll be okay, nice way to wait.

I can do this. I’m okay, I got this, it’s okay to fuck up a little. I don’t think I fucked up too bad, I didn’t hurt anyone, I didn’t ask a bunch of strangers to help me find Abel or anything stupid like that. People break shit in stores all the time, saw a lady drop a jar of olives on the floor. Olives and broken glass everywhere, bitch acted like it’d jumped off the shelf suicide-style rather than admit her clumsy ass dropped it.

One thing at a time. Focus on one thing at a time, focus on what I need to do now that I’ve calmed down. It’s okay, I didn’t fuck up too bad, I kept it together enough to get myself out, that’s what matters.

I can’t walk back to the store to get my car, I just can’t, even if I knew which way to go. I’ll deal with getting my car later. Can’t even drive it anyway, can’t drive after taking two. I know that. I don’t know where I am, but I have my phone. Just got to tell the phone where I want to go, it’ll figure out the rest, satellites in the sky can figure out where I am, not that fucking hard. Not walking anywhere, my leg’s okay, just sore, I know that. But I can’t walk home. I’m not even sure I can get up yet.

I close my eyes for a minute, focus on breathing. I don’t know what to do, how to fix this. I need help, someone needs to help me figure this out. Okay, fine. I can get help. I can do that.

Getting help’s easy, I got lots of people who are okay helping me. I got this. I look at my phone contacts. Not actually that many people okay helping me like this.

Aleks can’t help, he’s too far away. He’d probably come pick me up if I asked, but I’m not doing that to him. I know I can’t do shit like that to him. Ethan would be here in a heartbeat if I called him, he’d probably be okay taking me home first and then going to the store by himself, explain things to the manager, pay for the popcorn I broke, bring my car home for me. Ethan will do anything to help me, drop everything to help me, but he’s at work right now.

I try Beth first. She’s paid to help me, helping me is her job. Never have to feel bad about asking Beth for help, never have to get scared she might hate me for it, might resent helping me all the time. Never worry Beth wishes I didn’t need so much help with stupid shit. If I didn’t need help she’d be out of a job, bitch ought to be grateful as I’m as big of a fuck up as I am.

Nothing from Beth, I get her answering service. I’m expecting that, she’s not in the office until after ten on Wednesdays. Sometimes I get her nine slot on weeks I can’t wait for Thursday.

“Is this an emergency?”

Nice enough sounding lady on the phone trying to help me, answering service is pretty helpful. I know they don’t get paid enough to put up with my bullshit, but sometimes I’m not so calm when I do this, sometimes I start freaking out on whatever poor sap answers the phone trying to explain my doctor’s busy.

Not today, though. I’ve calmed down, I’m calm, got enough drugs in my system to calm me the fuck down and keep me that way.

“Nah. I’m okay. Just tell her I called.” I give the lady my information, tell her again that I’m okay, I don’t need 911 or anything. “Make sure she knows I’m okay.”

“I will,” the lady says.

Real nice voice, maybe patronizing me. I’m sure she just types it into a computer and hits send, Beth gets the email or whatever, I don’t know how it works. I’ve thought about asking, thought about being an asshole when these people have jobs to do, need me off the phone so they can keep answering. I can’t bug Beth’s answering service into talking me through being nervous, I know that.

I hang up, sit there looking through the pictures on my phone again. I can’t believe I fucked up the store like that. Been doing the store for months, store’s easy, only ever gets hard when it’s crowded, and I won’t go by myself if it’s crowded. I’ll go with Ethan, make him handle shit if I can’t, leave him standing there with the cart while I go wait in the car.

Sit there waiting for Beth to call me, waiting for some idea of what to do. Eventually I remember where I am, how I can’t sit on the sidewalk like this, I need to get up. If I want to sit somewhere, it needs to be somewhere people sit, not here. I don’t belong here, not my neighborhood, not my street, someone’s going to see me and not like it, want me to move.

Getting up’s hard. Real hard, takes a lot of struggling and pushing until I realize I can’t, I can’t get up. Not without something to help.

Now I’m glad no one’s around, not even Beth needing to watch me do this. Fucking drag my ass over to someone’s fenced yard so I can clutch at it, get my bad leg moving finally.

Everything lurches, spins, getting up’s fucking hard. My leg shivers, twitches, can't hold my weight. I swallow, rapidly, scared I might puke. So much saliva rushes into my mouth that I give up swallowing. I close my eyes, pant and shudder, become best fucking friends with this fence to help hold myself up. I hope to fuck no one’s inside the house watching me, calling the cops on the crazy man drooling into their front yard.

Thinking how I’m okay helps. Just the sedatives making shit spin, bad fall, leg's sore, I'm fine. Drooling’s better than freaking out, might drown myself but I’m sure as shit not going to fight anyone when I can barely stand up. I can do this, I only took two. I’m not going to pass out.

The pin-prick black vertigo recedes, breathing deep and slow helps keep it that way. Getting up was the hard part, I’ve got this fence to brace my weight against for now. I know I need to get moving, get walking, I can’t stay here, I can't walk, just being upright's hard enough. Beth’s going to call me back, but I need help now and know it. Goddammit, I have to call Ethan.

Just hearing his voice helps. The soft, familiar warmth in his half-distracted, “Hey.”

I like it when he answers the phone not sounding scared or worried, when he thinks nothing’s wrong. I like that he thinks it. I always hate having to ruin it for him. He’s going to know soon as I open my mouth. It’s gonna come out wrong no matter how hard I try.  

I wipe my face with my shirt and then adjust my lean against the fence. “Are you busy?” Half-way slurred, hitched, thick and miserable, totally wrong. 

He knows he has to be honest. He tries to soften the bad news as best he can. “I have a meeting in five minutes.”

I close my eyes, grit my teeth, focus on keeping my shit together. I can’t fucking make him cry at work, can't make him miss meetings and shit. Beth's calling me back, I can wait. “Okay. I'm okay.” 

"No, Sacha..." I hear him moving, hear the background murmur of printers and phones. He’s closing his office door. His tone turns brisk, controlled. “I have five minutes. What's wrong?”

“I need help. I fucked up the store." 

He sucks in a quick breath. “Where are you?”

“Somewhere safe. Neighborhood, not ours. I - I ran.”

“Okay.” The breath goes out, clean and smooth. It’s the sound of him thinking fast, getting me the fuck out of this mess. “Is your car at the store?”

“Yeah. Can't drive, I can't --”

“I know, it's okay. Can you take a cab home?”

“No, not now. Later, maybe, I don’t know, my leg hurts, I can’t walk. Ethan, I --”

“Okay. Sacha, that’s okay, I’ll get you a ride. I’ll - it’s a conference call, wait --” He’s moving again, I can hear shit clattering on his desk. Drawers opening. Dumbass is looking for his keys even though I dropped him off. “No, okay. I’ll borrow Caroline’s car. Sacha? I’ll come pick you up. I'm on my way."

Office printers again, phones ringing -- I hope he’s not running, but I bet he probably is. This isn’t the first time I’ve made him leave suddenly in the middle of the day. Usually pull this shit on Wednesdays, even if I'm doing it at the wrong time. He knows Wednesday afternoons, middle of the week, that’s my low. He puts all his meetings as early as he can. I’m usually in bed at this hour, don’t bother him until later with my bullshit. Sometimes Wednesdays aren’t so bad, I meet him for lunch if I’m sick of feeling sorry for myself. But not today, not this week. I decided to drag my ass to the store today, decided to be a stubborn greedy asshole, couldn't quit while I was ahead. 

“Ethan, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Sacha, it’s -- hold the elevator, please!”

He manages to sound so fucking nice, too, perfectly calm, floating along with that quick walk of his where he’s rushing without trying to look frantic. I bet we’re near five minutes, I wasn’t keeping track. He is, he’s keeping an eye on the clock. He only had five minutes. I can’t get him fired. I know that.

He’s in the elevator, still on the phone, I know he’s looking down at his watch. I gave him the stupid thing, can’t get mad at him for staring at it all the time. I need to quit before I get my navigator fired from his real job, the one he’s trying to do right now as I’m freaking out over buying fucking microwave popcorn. 

"I'm okay waiting. Ethan, I'm okay."

“Okay,” he murmurs Elevator voice, whoever held the door for him listening. I think there's a lot he wants to say, I bet he wishes he had more than five minutes, that it'd take less time for the elevator to reach the lobby, for him to reach me. He asks it soft, whispering, lighter than air. I must sound awful, he's trying hard not to sound scared. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Yup.” Once he shuts up, I’ll start looking at him, go through those dumb pictures if I’m stuck having to wait. “See you soon.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Abel POV)

“Give me your car keys. And your phone, hurry.”

Caroline turns to pull open the bottom drawer of her desk with brisk efficiency, already jumping to comply without me explaining myself or saying please. She’s stuck here in the lobby all day, anchored to her desk and the phone, ready to help anyone who asks. Someone breathless and urgent pleading desperate orders at her is something she’s accustomed to, all kinds of harmless emergencies get dumped on her.

“I need all my calls forwarded to your desk until I get back.”

“Sure, no problem.” She’s digging through her purse. I don’t know why her purse even has separate compartments if she’s not going to use them to organize the chaos. I have no idea how she manages to find whatever she’s hunting so quickly, when every time I try it’s like searching a black hole.

I bounce on my toes and glance to the doors, check the time again on my watch. “I’m late for a conference call. Caroline, here, this is call information. Can you dial in on your phone for me? I need my phone to find Sacha.”

“Sure.” Caroline rises up from her chair to take my phone from me. She glances at the email I’ve pulled up on the screen and then nods. “Sure, no problem. I’ll run both phones out to you, go.”

“Thanks.” I flash her a grateful smile. I’ll owe her lunch for this one, maybe flowers. Maybe both.

I turn and dash for the doors, walking quick until I’m outside and can run. Caroline parks in the same spot every day, I don’t have to waste time finding her little yellow hatchback. If someone stole her spot I would have heard about it that morning when I stopped at her desk to say hello.

As promised, Caroline’s ready at the doors to run both cell phones out to the car. She leans through the open window. “It’s muted. They’re waiting for the Sydney team to join, you have time.”

“Thanks,” I say again. “Thanks, Caroline.”

“No problem!” It’s her work-voice, chipper and eager, perkier than usual. She’s excited. She loves the days I do this to her. It’s the only reason I keep doing it, even though I know it’s wrong.

She leaves me there and rushes back to her desk to await the next emergency, which could be anything from deflecting a cold-call sales pitch to ensuring a catered lunch gets sent to the correct conference room. I’m the only person who brings her anything interesting.

I set her phone in the passenger seat and clip mine into the holder so I can see the screen. I already turned off the volume, I can’t have the navigation voice interrupting everyone during the meeting. It’s bad enough I’m not at my desk for this. At least I’m not presenting, at least this is mostly me listening while I drive.

I’m probably paying more attention right now than if I were at my desk, actually, because the call is a nice way to avoid worrying about Sacha. I’m sure he’s fine, everything’s okay, he told me himself he was okay waiting. He wouldn’t lie about that, he knows he can’t lie about this kind of thing. It only works if he’s honest.  

Mindful of this being Caroline’s car and not my own, I stop for the yellow rather than try beating it. A red light camera watches the intersection, it’s popped me a few times. I always seem to catch this light while I’m in a hurry.

Rather than try to follow the map, I drive to the store first. I pull into the lot long enough to find Sacha’s car and a lack of spinning blue and red lights anywhere. Nearly the whole front of the store can be seen through the front glass, and it’s quiet checkout lines, nothing unusual. Nothing wrong.

I’d have an easier time finding Sacha on foot than trying to follow the map, drive, and pay attention to Julie from Sydney’s fiscal analysis. I’m only on this call for questions at the end, and at this late in development all the questions are going to be about the numbers.

Julie from Sydney’s wrapping up when I spot Sacha. He’s leaning into a chain link fence, looking down at his phone. I’m glad he decided not to take up smoking again, I have Aleks to thank for giving him the idea of messing around on his phone while he waits.

I’m pleased as well to see that he’s on his feet, upright. As I get nearer his head lifts, he must recognize the car. He’s alert and focused. That’s a good sign. I assumed he’d be sitting or lying down. Now that I’m looking at him, now that I know he’s okay, I’m a little annoyed. Just the tiniest bit annoyed, because he knows not to take three in a strange place like this. He knows he can’t walk after three, can’t easily manage a cab ride either. I didn’t see anything at the store to explain three-at-once, which is either worrisome or infuriating.

I park alongside the curb in front of him and pick up Caroline’s phone. I thumb off the speaker for an immediate improvement in call quality. At my desk I might be staring at the coffee cup from yesterday, maybe reviewing my presentation notes of the material that’s being butchered in Julie’s quick recap. Either way I’d be paying attention, because they’re getting ready for questions.  

Around this time last year I blew it during a sales pitch for a big potential client. I needed the question repeated, flubbed it entirely when answering, made a fool of myself and the company. I don’t want to think about how close I came to losing my job. I've tried to avoid any mistakes since, no matter how hectic it makes things sometimes.

The first two questions are about pricing, the Sydney team’s got it. What I don’t have is Sacha in the car. I’ve been looking down at my lap to pay attention, and I glance up to see him still at the fence. He’s not even trying, he’s just staring at the car with his phone in hand.  

I gaze cuts to my phone, still in the holster. Two messages, both from Sacha. _cant walk_ followed by _leg hurts_.

I close my eyes for a moment, listen to Bryce from Accounting enunciating numbers. I can’t get mad at Sacha for this. Something went wrong for him, I know that. Nothing necessarily has to be wrong for things to go wrong, I know that.

But _he_ knows not to take three-at-once in a strange place, much less when I’m at work. If I get out of the car to help him then I’m not going to be able to do my job, and right now I need to do my job. He knows if I get fired we can’t pay the bills on just his disability checks. We wouldn’t even be able to afford his doctor, the medication he’s taking too much of when he knows sometimes he just needs to wait. I know he doesn’t like waiting, but sometimes we have to do things we don’t like. I don’t like waiting either, and I waited a year for him to learn the difference between what’s in his head and what’s real. His leg is fine. He knows that. He knows he can walk, he knows he can’t use his leg hurting as an excuse like this.

I grab the door handle to get out of the car. I keep the phone to my ear and check the street, the yards and houses, other cars parked. Mail truck, puttering in the opposite direction, a woman gardening with her back turned. I look at Sacha, the low profile of the hatchback between us. He’s tucked his phone away, he’s just standing there clutched into the fence with the bad leg useless.

I gesture for him to get in the car.

Sacha shakes his head. He points to his leg.

I take a deep breath. His leg is fine. He knows that, he knows it’s only sore and not broken, not twisted and mangled, he can walk. I don’t care how much he tries to shake his head at me, I know he’s capable of getting himself from that fence into this car. I don’t care if he has to crawl, I don’t care if he thinks he can’t do this, I know he can and he knows it, too, he knows he’s perfectly capable of moving three feet --

“Sacha!” The call’s on mute still, but I keep my voice low anyway. It’s brisk and insistent, he better know I’m serious. “Sacha, get in the car!”

My mouth flattens when his head shakes. He’s looking sullen, miserable. This would almost be easier if he gave up and passed out, let me order around the empty shell of him rather than try arguing sense into his stubborn, sulky refusal.

When I get closer he shifts on the fence but doesn’t let go, still doesn’t try putting weight on his leg even when I grab his arm to help. I make an effort to sound less irritated than I am, to hush my commands at him rather than hiss them. “Sacha, let go of the fence. Your leg’s fine. You can walk.”

He whispers, he knows I’m on a work call. He knows that, and still he’s not trying. “Ethan, I can’t --”

“No, you can! Sacha, stop it, you can. Nothing’s wrong with you, this isn’t real. You took too many pills again, you’re fine. You --”

“Ethan?”

Chill runs down my spine, floods my fingers and toes with numb. I turn from Sacha, press at my left ear. Behind me I dimly hear whatever mumbly-mouth, kicked-puppy apology he wants to give me that won’t fix this. From the phone against my ear I hear Julie from Sydney repeat my name.

“Ethan? Are you there?”

“Yes! Yes, sorry, I’m here. I --” Hastily I pull the phone down, wait the excruciating half-second for the black screen to clear. I waste the other half-second looking for the mute button, this is Caroline’s phone and not mine. I snap the phone back to my ear and walk away from Sacha, quickly, heart pounding. “Hi, Julie. Sorry about that, I was on mute --”

I hear chuckles, lighthearted teasing -- Oh, God, there must have been a question, they want me to answer a question, but I was lecturing Sacha. I close my eyes, try to breathe slow, try not to panic, try not to cry.

I should have waited for this call to be over before trying to get Sacha. I should have sat in the car until the call ended. I should have let Sacha wait until I could help him. He said he was okay waiting. I shouldn’t have tried to do everything at once like this. I know better.

“Okay, then,” says Julie. “So Ethan will circulate the revised documents with these corrections in place, and then I think we’re good to go. Unless, Ethan, did you have any questions?”

What were the corrections they wanted? I can’t ask that. Is this being recorded? Did Julie say at the beginning if she would distribute a recording of the meeting? Is someone from the Sydney team taking notes, or is the London team doing that? Am I going to get these corrections in writing, or should I have been taking notes this whole time?

There’s not a single question I can ask that won’t reveal how little attention I was paying. I’m sure if I had been paying attention, I would have a question. I’d have something to say. I’m sure the corrections they want are technically infeasible or otherwise a bad idea. This is going to backfire on me later, I just know it, this is going to bite me in the ass.

But I can’t get fired. I can’t lose my job. I have car payments, rent, I’m not even finished paying for Sacha’s hospitalization, his year of treatment, I don’t want to declare bankruptcy or have to ask my parents for money again, I desperately need this job.

I take a deep, calming breath. And then another, when that one doesn’t work. Somehow I manage a perfectly normal sounding response, professional and calm, polite. “No, I’m good. Thank you, Julie. I should have something by next week to send out.”

“Great! Thanks, Ethan!”

Someone needs to remind Julie from Sydney not to drink so much coffee at night. She’s bullying the call into completion, doing her wrap up, I’m going to stand here with my eyes closed until this is over. I’m ignoring Sacha, ignoring everything that isn’t listening to this phone call.

I want to keep standing there with my eyes closed even after the call ends. I’d like to open my eyes and be back at my desk. I’d like to open my eyes and be staring at an empty coffee cup.

Sacha’s up against the side of the car when I turn around. He’s managed from the fence to the car by himself, I knew he could. My stomach drops as I watch him struggle, no weight on his leg, gaze glassy but sharp, focused. He’s trying to get the door open despite the way he needs it to help keep himself upright.

Sacha’s head turns as I get closer -- his blown-open dark eyes flick to me, and then he flinches. He flinches, when he realizes I’m approaching him. I stop. He’s tense and wary, meek, uncertain of me in a way I hate even though I know I deserve it for snapping at him like that.

I swallow, throat thick. Getting frustrated with him doesn’t help, it only hurts us both. I know that, and I did it anyway. “Sacha, I’m sorry.”

He mumbles, thick and inarticulate. Not from drugs, no, I think he’s just sulking. I don’t catch what it is he says, don’t ask him to repeat it. I’m sure I won’t like it if he does.

I go get in the car, set Caroline’s phone into the middle console. I close the navigation app on my phone, because I don’t need directions from here. I know where I am, I know how to get home. I know a lot of things, but that doesn’t keep me from doing the wrong thing sometimes.

Sacha collapses into the passenger seat with a soft groan, a lot of white-faced struggling. I close my eyes briefly, not wanting to watch the messy results of what I’ve forced him into doing. I swallow again, but it doesn’t help. Nothing’s going to help right now except leaving, so that’s what I do. I don’t wait for Sacha to remember his seat belt, I just start driving.

Once we’re out of the neighborhood, I decide to remind him. “Sacha, buckle up.”

He’s slumped into the window, eyes closed, panting quietly. From the corner of my eye, I see him sketch a small nod. After a minute further of rest, he fumbles for the seat belt. I watch him, pay close attention to how he moves, how his face is twisted into miserable frown.

A hollowness fills me, forces out a question. “How many did you take?”

He glances to me, focused and alert, a little bleary-eyed but not so drugged he’s gone vacant. He answers slowly, puts effort into speaking clearly instead of mumbling. His voice is hushed and defeated. “Two, Ethan. I only took two.”

Heat stings my cheeks, wet blur fogs my vision. I blink, swallow, keep my attention focused on the road. I nod quickly, say, “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Okay.”

It’s not, it’s not okay. I assumed the worst, I assumed he took three, I yelled at him for taking too much when he didn’t, he only took two. One would have been better, he should try more to only take one, but two is okay. He knows he can take two and stay awake.

I want to ask what happened, what went wrong, but he’s not volunteering and I can’t pry. Not after I yelled at him, not when I’m in the middle of my work day. I need to be back at my desk, I need to find out what the hell those corrections are and make them. I want to know why he was so insistent on not being able to walk. I want to know if he talked to his doctor about Saturday, whatever went wrong at the airport. I want to know if he’s okay, if he knows I’m sorry, that I love him.

Moisture rolls over my cheek. I slap a hand up, brush at my face. I pull it together quickly before the first trickling tears can become a torrent of sobbing. I’ll deal with it later, I’ll worry about it later, I need to drive right now. I need to get Sacha home so I can go back to work.

Neither of us says anything else the rest of the short trip home. I think Sacha might be resting, not blacked out but gone fuzzy and distant all the same. When I park in front of the lobby doors, he doesn’t stir or open his eyes. His brow and mouth share the same hard twist. He’s uncomfortable, hurting, unhappy -- this is a bad day, and it’s not even noon.

I’m quiet, soft, tentative. “Sacha?”

“Mmn.” His eyes open, his head pulls from its droop against the window. Startled by the unfamiliar interior of the car, Sacha flashes his gaze around in brief distress. It doesn’t take him long to find me watching, for him to recognize more of his surroundings. He did drift out for a bit on me. Maybe it’ll help him focus on getting inside.

“We’re here.” I try to offer him a smile. “We're home.”

“Yeah.” Sacha avoids my smile, avoids looking at me now that he’s found me. He looks out the window at the lobby.

I’m not going to say anything unless he does. I’m not going to remind him, if he’s forgotten about his leg. He knows he can walk. I hope he’s remembered that. If this was his car, not Caroline’s, I’d just go park in his spot, crack the windows some, let him sleep it off in the parking lot if he wants. I could take my motorcycle back to the office, problem solved. I might do that anyway. If Sacha doesn’t cooperate I’m stuck with a convoluted workaround that involves rushing Caroline home on my bike during lunch.

Fortunately Sacha doesn’t try telling me again that his leg hurts, he can’t walk. I think we’re over that nonsense, I think he’s got it together now. I shouldn’t have snapped at him, shouldn’t have yelled, but maybe it was for the best if it got him moving. It’s hard watching him struggle, but I don’t have the time to help him all the way up to the apartment. Sometimes he has to help himself, he knows that. I know that. He’s fine, it’s not far from here to the doors, not far to the elevator. He can lean on the walls if he needs to, take his time, no one’s going to stop him. Someone might even offer to help him.

I watch Sacha limp inside, see him manage a sideways stagger into the wall. He’s fine. He’s stumbled home in worse shape on his own before. I don’t need to feel guilty about leaving him to suffer this alone. I need to get back to work, focus on keeping my job.

Caroline’s on the phone when I stop by her desk to return her phone and keys. She lifts a brow in silent demand, I shake my head slightly. I’m sure she can tell from my expression, my trudging walk through the lobby. Things aren’t okay, this is a bad day, and it’s only going to get worse.

Not long after I’m back at my desk, Sacha texts me. Not much, just a single word, just _home_ because he knows I’ll worry otherwise.

Texting him back anything will turn into everything. It’ll be one of those times I sit at my desk sobbing at my phone, messily texting Sacha long paragraphs, one of those times I forget and explode on him _I love you_ over and over. I decide to text Sacha _OK_ and leave it at that, force myself not to send anything else.

I eat an early lunch at my desk, eat one of the frozen dinners I keep in the office kitchen for days like this. Afterward I walk around the corner to the deli, pick up Caroline something. When it’s time for Caroline’s lunch break, we walk out to her car together in silence. I obviously don’t want to talk about what happened, obviously can’t handle talking about it right now. I’ll cry if we do, she knows that, I know that. I murmur directions for her in between reading emails on my phone.

Sacha’s car is still in the parking lot of the store, right where he left it. I would have left it there until five if I could, rather than interfere with Caroline’s lunch, but I’m concerned it’ll get towed. She pulls up alongside Sacha’s car and stops.

“Thanks. Thanks, Caroline.”

“No problem,” she says softly. We exchange brief smiles before I get out of the car.

She drives off, hurrying back to the office to eat the sandwich I bought her. She’ll have just enough time in the break room to stuff her face before needing to be back at her desk. I have the luxury of fudging my lunch hour, but Caroline’s rigid schedule isn’t like that. I really need to stop doing this to her, no matter how much she insists that she likes the excitement.

It takes me a while to realize I’m trying to unlock Sacha’s car with my motorcycle key. By the time I figure out my mistake, someone’s approaching. An older man, balding, pot-bellied and stocky, moving quickly across the parking lot.

“Excuse me,” he calls out. “Wait a minute.”

I’ve shoved the correct key into the car door, but now I wonder if maybe I should pretend like I don’t know anything about this car. Maybe I’m just standing here because I want to admire it. Sacha has a nice car, for its age, it’s a low and sporty thing in a fire engine red he likes, good leather seats, loud thrumming engine. Only two doors, barely any backseat space, but I couldn’t be too critical of his choices considering what I drive.

“Oh, um, I -” Stammering like an idiot isn’t going to get me out of this situation faster, because now that he’s getting closer I realize he’s wearing a polo shirt, khaki pants, name tag -- I think this is the manager. I think I’m about to be in trouble.

“Is this your car?”

He knows it’s not. I can tell just from the way he asks it. Although technically, this is my car. My name’s on the title. I somehow shape a pleasant smile, manage a polite response. I gloss over his question entirely. “May I help you?”

He comes closer, looks at how I’ve got a key in the door and then leans his head back to check the license plate. I lick my lips, strain to keep my pleasant smile steady. He glances at me, quick and calculating. “I’ve seen you come in with Sacha a few times. Are you his caretaker?”

I’m not sure which is more surprising, the question itself or the fact this man knows Sacha by name. He’s on a first name basis with Sacha. I know what that means. I know what it means when strangers know Sacha’s name and ask questions like _are you his_ \--

“No.” It’s snappish, rude, hostile. I clench my fist around the keys in my hand. “No. I’m his husband. Is there a problem here?”

Chagrin passes over the man’s expression, turns him suddenly nervous. “No, no problem. Do you have a moment to come inside?”

There is a problem, and it’s one he doesn’t want to discuss in the middle of the parking lot. Not enough of a problem that I couldn’t just say no, get in Sacha’s car, drive off with my middle finger lifted out the window if I wanted. Of course I wouldn’t do that, I won’t do that, but I could. He didn’t call the cops earlier. Whatever his problem is with Sacha, it’s not enough to scare me.

I’m sure Sacha won’t want to come back to this particular store anyway. Something went wrong for him, it could go wrong again. He’ll probably want to avoid it. I’ll let his doctor handle that, and I won’t sabotage this for him. If I drive out of here without letting this man talk to me, I might get Sacha banned, if he isn’t already.

Strange, fluttering terror follows as I go inside with the manager. I let him escort me into his office. It’s at the front of the store, windows to overlook both the registers and the parking lot. No wonder he spotted me so quickly. Sacha’s car is parked within view of his cluttered desk, I can see it through the glass.

“Luis.” He sticks out his hand.

It takes me a moment to realize we’re doing introductions. I’m not sure what else I expected. I’m still clutching these car keys like I might need to fight my way out of this. Hastily I drop them into my pocket, shake the man’s hand -- “Ethan.”

The manager clears a tied-together plastic bag from the chair, invites me to sit. He leans into the corner of his desk. Reluctantly I perch on the edge of the offered chair. Awkwardness hangs in the air, an expectation from him that this would be easier inside and with proper introductions done. He must not have realized it wouldn't help. These conversations are always awkward.

I decide to take pity on him. “Is this about what happened earlier?”

Relief sweeps through him, draws out a quick sigh. “Yeah, yeah. Ah, here, this is for Sacha. He left it. Tell him it’s fine, we can settle up later.”

I’m handed the shopping bag. Lumpy boxes are inside the opaque white plastic, jutting corners and long edges. Microwave popcorn, I realize. I asked Sacha to pick up popcorn at the store. He must have been at the register when things went wrong.

“I wanted to ask you if Sacha’s okay … Is he okay?”

I’m staring down at this shopping bag in my lap, something like a dull ringing in my ears. It makes it hard to understand what I’m hearing. I lift my face, I’m sure my expression is as blank as I feel.

The man folds his arms, regards me open concern. “I thought he might’ve gotten hurt.”

“No. No, he’s fine. Thank you, for asking, but he’s fine. These - these sorts of things happen,” I say diplomatically. I have no idea what happened, but I’m good at talking around Sacha’s issues without defining them.

He frowns deep, worried wrinkles. “That’s good, that’s good. Glad to hear. I reviewed it on the tapes,” he says. “It’s just as Mrs. Morrison said, she hit him with the cart. I hate doing this sort of thing, but you know how it can be, someone falling like that. Last thing I need’s a lawsuit.”

“Excuse me. Sorry, did you say --?” A buzz in my pocket distracts me, draws my attention. Sacha calling, it’s set to ring and vibrate both when he does, Sacha’s calling me, and did this man just say someone hit him with a _cart_ ? That he _fell_?

“I - I’m sorry, I need to --” I stand to get into my pocket easier, nearly lose the plastic bag off my lap. I snatch at it and then get my phone fumbled to my ear. “Sacha? Hi, hey.”

Mumbling, embarrassed, he doesn’t want to do this. “Are you busy?”

“I - I am, not - not especially. Not especially busy, no.” Flustered, I am so flustered, I am so certain this man just told me Sacha fell in the store, that he’s worried about a lawsuit.  

And then Sacha, mumbling, “Beth says I gotta go to the ER.”

Darkness passes over my face, that ringing noise gets louder. I sit, very heavily, more of a controlled collapse back into the chair. The store manager uncrosses his arms, straightens out of his lean. I wonder if he’s more worried about Sacha or a lawsuit, I wonder what the hell happened this morning, I wonder how I managed to get so much wrong today.

“Why? Why - why would she say that? Are you okay?”

My immediate terror is that Sacha’s in the middle of a crisis, that this terrible day is a full-fledged nightmare where I need to start thinking about taking his car keys, controlling access to his medications, removing sharp and dangerous objects from the house. I yelled at him when he did nothing wrong. I am so terrified that I pushed him over the edge with it, that he’s forgotten how much I love him, how I would never, ever want him out of my life.

“Yeah. I’m okay.” Flat, defeated, words slurring because he doesn’t care about making them distinct. “D'you want me calling an ambulance or not?”

“No! No, I can take you. Can you wait? Are you okay to wait?”

“Yeah.”

No hesitation, he didn’t even hesitate, he’s not lying. He knows he can’t lie, he can’t lie to me about being okay. “Is it - is it your leg? Sacha, is it your leg?”

Now he hesitates, now there’s a long enough silence from his end of the call that I glance up to meet the very worried look of this poor hapless store manager. A wild burst of imagination fires through me, the what-if of a lawsuit, money to pay my debts and ease some of the pressure. I don’t even know who I would sue, this manager or whoever this Mrs. Morrison is.

Sacha’s reluctant to answer, slow and careful. “Yeah, but, Beth says I got to go. You can call her,” he offers. Desperate, like I won't believe him.  

“No, I - I know. I know, baby, I'm sorry. I’m on my way. I’ll see you soon?” I wait. I hold my breath and wait.

"Yeah." I think he won't say it, but then he does. Heart-shattering soft, "See you soon."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Cain POV)

Here we are again, me being right and him being wrong. Fucking sucks, fucking hate it, not fair to him that he can’t fuck up sometimes but goddammit I was right. I was right, and I’m pissed as hell about it. I can barely sit still I’m so fucking pissed, but I’m stuck sitting my ass here waiting anyway.

Ethan’s sitting in the chair by the door, anxious, nervous, scared and looking it. Sniffling, a slow accumulation of shredded tissues in his lap like snow. Someone handed him a square box of them at some point, ample ammunition for his sad-sack misery. He keeps tapping his foot, won’t stop looking at his watch. I’m not saying anything to him about it. I’m not saying shit to him.

I want him to fuck off, but that’d require saying something to him, and I’m not doing that. My phone buzzes, a new message from Aleks appearing in the conversation.

_xrays come back yet?_

I type, _nah still waiting_ , and hit send.

Ethan watches without looking like it, bet he’s dying to ask me what the hell Aleks and I are over here talking about. Been texting Aleks since the apartment, started texting him while waiting for Ethan to pick me up. I sent him a photo of my ankle, the swelling, nasty as fuck green-yellow bruising starting to darken. Bet he didn’t burst into tears seeing it, unlike my stupid fucking navigator.

I might throw my phone at Ethan’s head if he doesn’t stop sniffling like that. He needs to get his shit together or get out. Him sitting there all weepy and guilty and miserable isn’t helping. I’m trying not to be pissed at him, I’m trying real hard to be nice about this. I need a ride home, and I don’t have enough on me for a cab from here. I’m sure as hell not asking Ethan for money. If Aleks was here, I’d tell Ethan to go to hell and stay there until he can come back and behave.

On the screen a new message appears. Second later the phone buzzes to tell me about it. I like when that happens, always amuses me. Aleks being too fucking fast like always, think it’s funny even before I see what he’s sent.

 _Still? Sucks_.

“Heh.”

Ethan’s head lifts. Definitely curious what I’m doing, why I’m over here grinning while he’s over there bawling. If he wants to stop being so fucking sad and sorry, then maybe he ought to do something about it other than crying.

More from Aleks pops onto the screen. _Well, it’s probably not broken. I doubt even you are dumb enough to run around with a broken ankle._

_i dunno man maybe_

_Yeah I realized after I sent that what a useless reassurance it was._

Get a real chuckle out of me, something low and quiet that makes Ethan lose all pretense of ignoring me. He starts watching me, bluntly curious, gathering his courage to ask.

I glance up from the screen, keep my eyes on him. Two of us get into a fucking staring contest, neither one saying shit. We did the bare minimum of talking needed to get here. I told Ethan to shut up soon as he burst into the apartment white-faced and terrified. Didn’t need him panicking, hard enough keeping myself calm without him making it worse.

I fucking told him I was okay, told him I was fine waiting. Had my ass laid up on the couch with Essem when Beth called me back. Dumbass cat takes off like a rocket if I set my phone on vibrate, won’t stir at all for loud blaring. I’m a bit sorry for scaring her, but better her than me sometimes, especially if I’m waiting on Beth to call me back.

I should have just called a fucking ambulance after Beth confirmed that for once I wasn’t being crazy. Ambulances cost money, it’s a lot of fucking fuss for no reason, and I’m not so keen on them anyway. Don’t like medical shit, hospitals, disinfectant, machines beeping, white sheets, white walls -- fucking hate hospitals. I hate this. Hate it so fucking much.

Door opening interrupts us, makes Ethan startle, makes me nearly separate out of my fucking skin. I straighten up quick, turn off my phone screen even though Aleks sent me something, little vibration between my palms letting me know about it. Doesn’t matter if I text him back now or six hours from now, natural as breathing for him to continue a conversation. Guess it’s easy when the phone tells you everything you said previously, everything said to you. I like it too, usually makes it easy to figure out what kind of nonsense I send him that I don’t remember later.

Ethan’s out of the chair, on his feet, expression eager. I feel sorry for the doctor, the two of us sitting white-faced and tense, about ready to rip him apart for answers.

Doctor’s nice about it, does this for a living, knows to smile right away. Doesn’t calm Ethan any, but he’s being a fucking idiot right now, that’s to be expected. If I felt like being a rude little shit, I could start texting Aleks the good news, even before the doctor says anything. No one wanders in smiling like that for bad news.

“It’s not broken,” the doctor says.

I fucking knew it. I know too well what broken feels like.

“Oh, thank God.” Ethan flutters a hand at his chest, like anyone gives a shit what he thinks. I want to snap at him not to interrupt. I keep my mouth shut instead.

Bad news follows, figured there’d be bad news. Ankle’s sprained, bad, serious, knew that too. Pretty obvious, no surprise it’s sprained, glad it’s not broken. Doctor starts telling me stuff, what to do, how fucked I am. Ethan nodding along, interrupting to ask nosy questions in a wavering, tearful voice that gets him sympathy and smiles from the doctor. Assholes start ignoring me. Talking all around me, over me, about me in that way I hate. I’m sitting right here. Upright, eyes open, I was fucking around on my phone before he walked in, pretty goddamn obvious I’m awake. Ethan ought to know I’m not saying shit because I’m pissed at him, not because I’m too sedated to string words together.

It’s not worth sulking over, not going to be a little shit about it, I’ll sit here playing along real nice about things. I’ll even thank the doctor, get a sniffy sideways look from Ethan. I’m about ready to kick him out of the room, to hell with it. I’ll fucking crawl my ass out of here. Might prefer it to these fucking crutches I’m being given.

Ethan comes over, sniffles, watches, I don’t need his fucking help for this, I know how to use crutches. I know how to keep the weight off my bad leg, for fuck’s sake, I don’t need him fucking hovering. I got my ass into the car, got my ass into the fucking apartment. I don’t need his help for this, goddamit, I can help myself. If he wants to be _helpful_ he can go pull the car around, get me the fuck out of this hospital before I lose it.

“Careful.” He fusses, hands out like I might fall over. Tentative smile, big wet eyes. “Got it?”

I might smack this crutch into his face if he touches me. I know I’m not supposed to snarl a people trying to help me, but fuck it, and fuck him. “Get out.”

He does it, he leaves. Hesitates first, turns his pretty mouth down and bats his lashes over those big, wet blue eyes, but fuck it, and fuck him. I was right, he was wrong, I’m pissed as hell about it. I know I’m the dumbass who ran off with a sprained ankle and made it worse, but it sure as fuck didn’t help that I had to keep doing it, keep putting weight on something I _knew_ wasn’t right.

Fucking mystery hallway outside the room. I have to ask a passing nurse which way to go, she’s nice enough to walk slow enough I can hobble after her on these fucking crutches. I can’t even text Aleks the good news, need my hands to walk, holy shit. I’m so fucked.

All I can think, trying not to, but it’s still all I can think. Crutches, hobbling, rest, motherfucker told me to go home and rest, stay off my feet as much as possible. Fuck me, my good news is complete shit.

Find Ethan outside waiting with the car, doing something that actually helps. Ambulance would have gotten me here, cab would have gotten me home.

Text Aleks in the car. _not broken_

He sends back, _Yay!_

I snort, too fucking amused by trying to imagine Aleks actually going _yay_ about anything. I snap a picture of the crutches wedged into the floorboard alongside my puffy, wrapped-up, splinted ankle. I like sending him pictures of shit, saves me a fuck of a lot of time typing.

_Boo! That sucks._

_yup sucks_

_Well, you can drive still right?_

_driving an automatics easy_

_Well that’s not so bad! Come hang with me tomorrow if you want while Ethan’s at work. I’ll sign your splint._

“Heh.”

I start typing back to Aleks that he’s a dumbshit before I realize I’m being watched. Ethan, staring at me instead of the road. Serves him right if he crashes. Holy shit, I might actually laugh in his face if he gets pulled over. I turn my head to look out the window, search for a cop car. I might flag one down.

“Sacha?”

I know not to snarl at Ethan, but fuck him. He needs to watch the damn road. Cab drivers go out of their way to ignore you, they take home night time drunks all the time. I should have sucked it up and asked one to haul my daytime drunk ass home. Hospital's too far, but store's close enough, I could've paid for a cab from that fence to home. Cab driver might’ve noticed I was hurt, been nice to me about it.

I should have called 911 instead of Ethan. Fuck sirens and strangers and getting locked in a small metal box, put into a goddamn hospital on wheels. I hate hospitals. Hate medical shit. Hate getting hurt, hate snarling but fuck it. Everything hurts.

His sniffles are turning leaky, he’s losing it. If we crash, that’s it. I’m out. I might hop out the next time he’s forced to stop for a light. He’s rolling these fucking stop signs again even though he knows not to. He knows not to run yellow lights either, or drive while sobbing. My goddamn navigator’s lost it.

“Pull over.”

He’s moved into hiccupping by the time he manages it, pulls into a parking lot to stop. I look down at my phone when he stops. I can’t fucking look at him and be nice about this. I don’t think I can be nice to him anyway, I’m getting this out around grit teeth. I’m going to snarl this at him, because _fuck_ him. I was right.

“I get it, Ethan. It’s fine. I get it.”

Goddamit. Both hands to his mouth, that ring on his hand gleaming, him falling apart instead of getting it together. “Oh,” he whimpers.

I look somewhere else, whatever the fuck’s not him. “I’ll drive.”

He shakes his head, lowers his hands. “No, I’ll drive.”

I wish he wouldn’t try to smile, it’s not helping. I can’t fucking look at him, but I can’t get leave either. I’m stuck. Leg’s fucked, it’d take me forever to get out of the car. Nowhere to go.

I look out the front windshield at the parking lot, everyone going around like normal ignoring us, overhead lights casting big puddles into the evening. “Ethan, you can’t drive while crying. I'll drive.”

He’s calmed, only as far as sniffles. I hear him trying to clean up the mess on his face. Brushing at his cheeks, using his shirt sleeve. He’s trying to get control of himself, the situation, me. “I know. I know, I’m sorry. I’ll stop --

“It’s my car, Ethan.”

“I know. I know, but your leg --”

He shuts up when I start snarling. I can’t fucking stop. I’ll fucking kill him for this. I can’t do it, I can’t be fucking nice, fuck him. Fuck my leg hurting like this, fuck not being able to walk and fuck these crutches, fuck this phone I might snap in half. Fuck this. Fuck texting, fuck pictures, I’m calling this one in. I’m out.

I don’t even wait for him to say anything. Soon I hear the click and hush -- “Ride, now.”

“Uh, ‘kay.”

He’s hung up before I even get the phone off my ear. Aleks doesn’t give a shit if I snarl at him. I don’t give a shit it’ll take him two hours. He can’t get here any faster, I know that. I can wait. I’m fine waiting.

Ethan’s gone round-eyed, silent. I’m done looking at him, done being fucking nice about this. He can get out of the car if he wants. It’s my car. I like sitting in it. Sit in it a lot. Bring the cat out with me when the weather’s real nice, sit in the apartment parking lot all damn day in my car. Sleep out there if the weather's nice sometimes.

Not going to fight Ethan to drive my car, that’s fine. He can have it. I’ll fucking kill him if I try fighting him about driving, about my leg, and why the hell it’s useless to me right now. I might kill him if he says another fucking word to me while I’m stuck in this car waiting. I might kill him anyway. I hope he knows that. He better fucking know I'm serious.

Two hours of cold silence. He cries some, sniffles, sighs, hesitates, fidgets, worries, frets, taps, texts, sits. He knows not to fucking talk to me, touch me, I’m done. He stirs out of silence when Aleks’ perpetually dying piece of shit car crawls into the parking lot.

“Sacha, he’s here.”

Like I’m not sitting right the fuck here looking at shit out the window. But he waited. I can be nice to him again, if he was nice enough to wait.

“Yeah.”

Soft, controlled instead of controlling. “I’m sorry. Sacha, I - I was wrong.”

I can’t fucking help it. He should know how much I like being an asshole. He knows he was wrong, I got a right to be pissed at him.

“Yup.”

I’ll give him credit, he’s got his shit together. He just nods, looks beyond me for a moment out the window. I can hear Aleks’ car behind me pulling up to park. Ethan smiles. He’s pulled it together. “I’ll see you later?”

He was nice enough to wait, I can be nice back. “Yup. Be back soon.”

Right thing to say, except I’m still snarling at him. My leg hurts, I’m pissed, I was right, he was wrong, no way I can sound nice. He should know that.

Ethan nods, looks down at his lap. His head turns aside, a hand flicks up to his cheek. Sniffling follows.

Out the window I see Aleks waiting. When our eyes meet he shrugs, vague as shit way of asking if I need help. I shrug back, because it depends on what he’s asking about. Aleks nods, looks down at his lap.

Minute later Ethan’s phone beeps. An echo of sniffling follows, then silence except the soft tap of a reply. I keep watching Aleks, fuck looking at Ethan for this.

Aleks tucks his phone into his jacket, checks the parking lot and then gets out of his car. Ethan likewise gets out of the car, all his shit together enough to sound pleasant. “Hi, Aleks. Thanks for coming."

The door shuts, muffling whatever dumbshit nice thing Ethan says next. His voice trails around the car, he better not be thinking I need his help getting out. To prove it I pop open my door, start hauling my ass out of the car. Ethan starts forward, but Aleks beats him to it. Casual as shit, he's just quick on his feet. Aleks grabs the crutches for me, sees I need them out of the way to get out easy. He hands them back when I’m ready, no unnecessary bullshit other than that.

“I’ll drive your car home, Sacha.” Ethan’s offering this with a smile, like maybe I’ll stop scowling at him if he tries hard enough.

“Fine.” He’s lucky I haven’t put his ass on the ground yet, to hell with my leg being fucked.

“Okay,” says Ethan.

He’s hovering, fretting, looking around at the parking lot, watching me limp and clatter along on the crutches. I remember his dumbass face that morning, too nervous to get out of the car. I stop hobbling, stand there with my weight swayed into the thin metal gripped under my arms. Painful as shit, the way these things bite. Fuck it, I like swaying my weight with them if I have to use them.

Ethan holds the door open on Aleks’ car, wavers something big-eyed and wet at me. I don’t where the fuck he thinks I’m going when he’s getting to take my car home and I have session with Beth tomorrow. I slump my ass into the passenger seat. Aleks helps with the crutches again. I don’t know why the fuck Ethan's looking scared I’m won't come back, except for all the times I made him think I might not. 

Being nice to him might kill me before I get a chance to kill him. I look at Aleks, flick my head and eyes both to tell him to get lost. He turns around quick, fucks around with his phone somewhere else.

Ethan watches holding the door, looking worried, looking scared. He's trying to smile, keep it together. 

I can't look at his sad sorry face and be nice. Can't look at my feet either, puffed up throbbing ankle reminding me why I'm pissed. "See you later."

"Okay." Hushed, soft. I've scared him enough with snarling and sulking that he says it, he has to say it. Has to force me into being even nicer to him. "I love you."

It's snarling or nothing, fuck being nice. "Yeah, okay."

I hear the two of them talking, once I'm shut up in the car. Ethan talking, Aleks stuck listening. They're doing it behind the car, I'm not turning my head to look. I see Ethan go get in my car, Aleks comes to sit in his. Bottles of soda at various levels of completion clutter up the cup holders and floorboards, other bits of trash and forgotten shit. Aleks plugs his phone into the charging cable dangling out of the adapter, fiddles with it. Probably texting Ethan to calm the fuck down, telling him not to worry.

I let Ethan take off, make Aleks sit there wondering what the fuck I'm doing. He thinks there's an answer to this, that I've got a plan that goes beyond what we're currently doing. Eventually he figures it out without me saying anything, he usually does. Aleks sets his phone side and starts driving. He glances over a bit, curious if I'll say anything, do anything, but he's figured it out. No need for me to make an announcement. Everyone knows I don't have anywhere else to go. Car, balcony, apartment, it's all the same, it's all my aquarium. I'm smart enough to know I'm trapped. 

Aleks parks in the visitor spot, hops out to come help me with the crutches. He grabs his backpack and then locks the car like his half-drank soda is worth stealing. We go inside and wait for the elevator with Aleks reading over the announcements board. Sometimes I'll ask him if there's anything interesting on it. Not today though.

Essem greets me at the door yowling, promptly loses her fucking mind when she realizes Aleks is with me. She's loud enough Ethan has to know we're here, but he's smart enough to stay clear. He's hiding in the bedroom probably. Aleks fetches me a bag of ice, wraps it up in a dish towel, sticks it on my ankle where the bruising and throbbing's the worst. 

I lay there watching whatever crap on TV that Aleks wants, eat whatever late dinner Aleks decides to salvage out of the kitchen. Ethan comes peeking out at some point, quietly banging through kitchen cabinets, washing dishes, whatever fucking excuse to hover around looking for an invitation. He can fuck off. I'm hanging out with Aleks. I'm making use of this sofa to get my sprained ankle rested, iced, compressed, and elevated like the fucking doctor said. I don't need him hovering, I don't need him moping around making sad sighs and forlorn looks. 

Gets late enough that Aleks brushes his teeth, silently offers to help me out with the same task. He fetches my toothbrush out of the bathroom, makes sure I'm okay getting to the kitchen sink and back to use it. Aleks wanders back into the bedroom to fetch pillows, blankets, an earful of worry from Ethan. He dumps bedding on me with a scowl.  

"Thanks," I tell him. Makes him scowl more, even as he's giving Essem a scratch under the chin. She's purring loud on my chest like usual, maybe louder than usual, warm and heavy, soft under my fingers. Lying on the sofa with the dumb cat's not a bad way to rest. Awful day, but lying here resting is okay. Ice on my ankle helps. I stare up at the ceiling, television glow dancing over it.

Aleks rolls out the sleeping bag behind the sofa. I hear him on his phone tapping. Could be either a game, texting Ethan, or texting someone else. I put my phone on silent, left it crumpled up in my pants on the floor. Ethan hovered for Aleks yanking them off me, pretended like something in the kitchen needed scrubbed. I'd gladly take off my own damn pants if my leg wasn't fucked, and we both know why my leg's fucked. I think about what I'm going to tell Beth tomorrow, what I'll say to Ethan. I try hard to focus on tomorrow, since I'm done with today. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Abel POV)

“Ethan, do you have a moment?”

Dr. Warren holds open the door to the exam room, a pleasant, bland smile letting me know I’m in trouble. I’ve been in trouble from the moment Sacha called me, the moment that store manager asked me into his office, from the moment I realize how much I got wrong about yesterday.  

“Yes. Yes, of course.” I’m already on my feet, I’m expecting this. I’ve been sitting here waiting, worrying, trying to prepare myself for what’s about to happen.

Aleks shifts his legs, clears a path for me without glancing up or pausing the fast rhythm of his fingers over the laptop keys. A bulky set of wireless headphones encapsulates his head in more silence than usual, an obvious indication he’s to be left alone. He’s working, he’s at work, has been all day despite hanging around with Sacha at our apartment. He can work anywhere, so long as he has his laptop and phone, and Aleks takes both everywhere.

The exam room’s cozy lamp-lighting and heavy curtains are meant to be comforting, but it always strikes me as alienating. It always highlights how out of place I feel, coming in here like this. Discomfort crawls along my back and twists into my stomach, sweat slicks awkwardly into the armpit of my starched button-up. Unlike Aleks, I spent my workday at the office. I spent it frantically digging through the meeting summary notes the Sydney team sent out yesterday while I was stuck waiting with Sacha at the hospital for x-ray results. My day at work consisted of trying not to think of Sacha, trying not to think about yesterday. I mostly tried not to cry.

Sacha’s stretched across the leather loveseat with his ankle propped up. He’s arranged to face the aquarium, instead of the door. Dr. Warren brings in one of the chairs from the waiting room for me. I don’t know if that’s entirely because of Sacha's leg. It could be, he’s supposed to keep it elevated, he’s supposed to stay off it. I’m curious how the bruising looks, if the swelling’s gone down, how he feels, if it hurts, but I’m sure it hurts. I’m sure he’s hurt.

Dr. Warren sits in her black wicker chair. Sacha stays in the same place, likely he’s been there the full hour. Sometimes he’s up pacing around when I’m asked in like this. Sometimes he’s not in the room, sometimes he sits in the waiting room while Dr. Warren and I talk. I usually don’t get asked to participate, but if I’m going to be pulled in, it’ll be on a Thursday. He takes the last appointment of the day, four-thirty to five-thirty, and depending on how the morning went I’m either picking him up or getting a ride home. I took my bike to work rather than ask Sacha about borrowing his car.

A square box of tissues occupies the low coffee table in front of the loveseat. Sometimes Sacha has it in his lap instead, sometimes he’s holding a scrunched-up bit of white in his hand. Not today. Today he’s staring moodily at the aquarium, pointedly not looking at me, not looking at his doctor. His arms are crossed over his chest, the slight scowl something of a relief. Much as it knots my stomach to be in trouble like this, it's the anticipation that's worse. I’ve been working hard to put everything into perspective, prepping for this moment.

Dr. Warren settles her hands in her lap, crosses her legs at the ankle. “Okay, Sacha. Ready?”

He sighs, worn and heavy. “Yeah.”

“Ethan, Sacha wanted to tell you something. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” I reply. I’m braced for it, I’m ready, I know what I did wrong. I know what he’s going to say to me. I’ve already thought about my response.

Sacha pulls his gaze from the serenely bubbling fish tank, flicks it across the ceiling instead. A long sigh deflates him further, flattens the words. “When I say I can’t do something, I mean it.”

“I know. I know, but --”

Smooth and abrupt, authoritative. “Ethan, wait please. Let Sacha finish.”

Heat rushes into my face, blistering guilt pulls my head into a quick, cringing nod. I don’t bother apologizing, there’s no point, it’d just waste the doctor’s time.

Sacha lies there staring at the ceiling with his hands rested over his chest. Putting his thoughts together, finding the words, I know better than to cut him off like that. I know this sort of thing is hard for him.

His fingers knot together. “I get stuff wrong. You can’t trust me. I fuck up, I make you do everything for me, stuff I should be able to do by myself. It’s not fair. It puts a lot of pressure on you not to fuck up. We can’t both be fucking up, one of us has to have shit together. I make that be you too much.” Sacha snarls around a clenched jaw, “I’m sorry.”

It’s the tiniest shift of my weight, a devastated arrangement of my expression that gives it away. Dr. Warren shakes her head slightly, warns me not to interrupt.

“But when I say I can’t do something, I mean it.” Sacha glares at his knotted hands. “It doesn’t matter if you think I can. I think I can’t. Until I think I can, too, it’s not happening. You gotta talk to me about it, you can’t just tell me how it is. Even if you think I’m wrong, let me try saying why I think it’s wrong. I'm sorry it has to be this way. Sorry it sucks. Sorry I’m so fucking crazy and useless, but you knew that going into this. You knew I was broken --”

A soft _tsk_ sound from the doctor makes him glance over at her. Sacha forces out the knots in his hands, smooths them across his thigh and then switches ideas entirely, tucks his hands behind his head in a way that’s painfully casual. I let out a held breath, glad someone stopped him from saying such awful things about himself.

The anger and frustration slips from his voice, turns the accusations soft so they hurt worse than if he snarled them. “You weren’t listening to me. I tried telling you on the phone I fell, I tried telling you I was hurt. I knew you were busy, I was trying to wait. I was trying to do the right thing, Ethan. I wasn’t trying to piss you off being stubborn. I was trying to keep my shit together. I was trying to get help. And then, yeah. You pissed me off, I was done talking to you. I should’ve kept trying, but fuck it. Yesterday _sucked_.”

His voice breaks, his eyes close, the breath he sucks in hitches with tell-tale wet thickness. I sit frozen in my chair while Dr. Warren smoothly rises up from hers, drags it closer to Sacha. She snags a tissue out of the box to give him. I fiddle with my wedding ring, watch myself do it rather than watch the two of them. I try not to listen to what she’s murmuring at him, I try not to interfere. I try to be as invisible as I wish I could be for this.

It’s not my turn to say anything yet, this is Sacha’s time. I know they can both see me sitting here quietly staring at my watch. I hope I don’t look disinterested, I hope I don’t seem callous. I know that’s silly, I know silence is exactly what they both want from me right now, but I feel the most desperate urge to explain myself. Defend myself, maybe, even if I know I did everything wrong.

I know I wasn’t listening to Sacha, I’d already made up my mind about what was happening. I thought I knew better than him about something he’s entirely in charge of, something he has under control. This is the two hundred eighty-fifth day since Sacha came home. He’s made mistakes, we’ve had bad days, but he’s been perfect where it counts.

I hear a laugh from Sacha, low and rough. “Yeah. Today sucks, too. Lots of stuff sucks,” he says, in a rallying tone. Dr. Warren’s sitting upright in her chair instead of leaned over, he’s relaxed into watching the patterned shadows over the ceiling from all the turned-aside lamps. As if nothing just happened, everything reset to exactly how it was before Sacha needed a break.

“Yesterday sucked, but that’s okay. I’m done being pissed.” He draws in a long breath, sighs out something soft like surrender. “Sorry for being an asshole. That wasn’t right, even if I thought you deserved it for hurting me first. You were trying to help. I get that. Thanks for trying, even when I’m shit to you. I’ll try to do better.”

I swallow, throat thick. I think I might cry if I try to smile. I think I might cry anyway, even though I know that’ll make things worse. I look down at my hands instead. I cried myself to sleep last night, cried in the parking lot before work. Dr. Warren’s looking at me, Sacha’s looking at me -- it’s my turn.

We’re at the end of the call, the time for questions, this is the part I always hate. No matter how prepared I think I am, it’s not enough. I never know what to say. No matter how much I tell myself I won’t cry, I always do.

My turn to be handed a tissue, to have the doctor console me into stopping. She pats my shoulder so I smile at her, embarrassed, sniffle myself into silence. Sacha’s sitting upright when I stop, braced on his arms and twisted to avoid moving his hurt ankle. Every time I see the split, the bruising and swelling, it’s a split-second of vertigo and nausea.

I nearly fainted when I saw Sacha’s ankle yesterday, when I realized what’d happened to him, what I’d done to him, however unintentional. While Sacha was getting his leg x-rayed for fractures, I hyperventilated in the hospital bathroom, sobbed and panicked, kept at it until I made myself sick. Later at the sink, washing my face and rinsing my mouth, I could accept the cold truth.

I’d cut him off, I’d had a million other things on my mind, I didn’t really hear it at the time -- but later, later as I went over it, carefully pulled those millions of things apart, I remembered him saying _I fell_ when explaining why he couldn’t take a cab. I wasn’t listening to him, wasn’t considering what he had to say important, when he’s the fighter, not me, and this is his fight.

This horrible thing he’s fighting, it’s just as tough as he is, just as stubborn, just as strong. But he fights it every day, beats it every day, keeps fighting, keeps winning. He does it for me, because I asked him to, when he’d decided to give up. I encouraged him to keep fighting, and he did.

Sobbing isn’t helping me explain anything, tissues aren’t helping me stop sobbing. “I hurt you. Sacha, you were hurt, and I didn’t care. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I should have waited. I should have trusted you. I’ll try to do better, too, I’ll --”

He’s managing it fine, but I fuss at Sacha to stop him from getting off the loveseat. He catches my hand, pulls me into sitting with him. An awkward fold puts us together, keeps his leg elevated, gets his arms around me. My sobs fall into his shoulder. Sacha squeezes a desperate plea at me to stop.

“Ethan, come on,” he murmurs. “Cut it out. It’s not like I hate you, dumbass.”

“No.” I choke around a sob. “No.” I try desperately not to make it sound like a question, I try so hard to sound teasing. I want to sound like I know the answer. “You love me.”

“Yeah.” His lips press into my hair. “Yeah, Ethan. I do.”

His hand cups my neck, warmth strokes along the rough glide of his thumb along my cheek. Dr. Warren’s left the room. Sacha leans over to pluck the tissue box closer. He hands me a couple so I can clean my face, blow my nose.

When I see him glance at the door, I realize this isn’t over. He’s got something else to tell me. Something he wants her out of the room for, something that can't wait for tonight. I lock a cautious smile in place, mind running wild as to what else could be wrong, what else I might be in trouble for.

Sacha catches my reaction, grimaces. “It’s not that bad."

I’m more transparent than invisible, despite my best effort. “Oh?”

He nods and then leans back, tries to get more comfortable. Awkwardness suffuses the way we rearrange so Sacha can recline easier. He takes hold of my hand, keeps it held, keeps me close, the gesture melting some of the cold, bracing calm I feel.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do a month laid up resting,” Sacha says. Flat and matter of fact, a genuine question of his ability to convalescence in peace. More flat statement follow, painful truths with all the hurt beaten out of them already, his hard-fought effort at making this not hurt me.

“I don’t think I can do it. I really don’t. I was already shaky getting back into routine, and now this shit making it worse. I didn’t want to come home from the honeymoon. I hate sitting around all day. It’s not that bad, it’s not awful. It’s not, I just hate it.” Sacha frowns, scowls, a sudden snarl of overwhelming frustration bursting through him. “I don’t know what to do, but I’m working on it with Beth. I’ll do something, I’m not giving up. Okay?”

“Okay.” I squeeze his hand. My heart’s racing in sudden terror, the same jolting fear as ever filling me when Sacha talks about _giving up_. Even when he’s reassuring me he won’t, it still means he’s considered it, that it’s something on the table for discussion. “If there’s anything I can --?”

“I know. I got it, Ethan. I got it. If I need something, I’ll ask.” He’s uncomfortable quickly, done talking about it, doesn’t want to hurt me by saying something he hasn’t worked through with his doctor first. Sacha rubs his fingers through mine, the metal of our rings clinking together. “I’m okay, Ethan. I got this.”

“Okay.” An easy smile warms everything, unlocks a smooth sigh. “Okay, Sacha. Thanks for telling me.”

Sacha’s face scrunches in disgust for the sappy way I brush my fingers through his hair, beam affection at him. I kiss his scowling brow before helping him up to leave. It’d be one of the times we embarrass ourselves by walking out holding hands, except Sacha needs both his to use the crutches. The clattering metal limp to his stride doesn’t make me feel quite so sick with guilt. He’s worried about four to six weeks of recovery for his ankle, but at least nothing broke, the metal rod and its securing pins weren’t damaged, the bad leg’s only temporarily worse.

Saying goodbye to the doctor I brush my hand over his arm anyway, fuss at helping him down the stairs while Aleks stands around ready to take a dive to break Sacha’s fall if needed. Since it’s so late already I invite Aleks to stay for dinner, stay another night if he wants.

“On the sofa, myshonok. Free upgrade.” Sacha, chiming in with a wide grin. “Ethan’s out of the doghouse.”

“Fine,” rasps Aleks. His deadpan doesn’t twitch despite the way I flush with embarrassment. I flash him a brief, grateful smile as we walk to the parking lot.

I try not to be jealous of how much time Aleks spends with Sacha, same as I try not to mind Sacha is the cat’s favorite. The two aren’t comparable, they’re not even close. I still resent all the times that Sacha wouldn’t want me to visit him, but Aleks was okay. No matter how many times Sacha explains it, my whole body tenses and fills with  senseless, dark jealousy same as I felt the night he told me slept with Aleks. Only the once, something both of them regret, but it happened. It always makes moments like these awkward, when Aleks and Sacha are together, and I’m left out. I try not to let it bother me, because both of them go out of their way to assure me how little I have to be jealous of.

Sacha bites a smirk at me as he hands over the crutches. I hold open the door to Aleks’ car for him, smile back in a way I hope doesn’t show my thoughts. It’s not as hard as it was earlier watching him struggle into the passenger seat with no weight on his leg, and he’s hardly struggling with it now.

Sacha takes the crutches from me, sets his hand over mine to do it. “Remember to pull over if you start bawling.”

Mock indignation pulls a laugh from me. “Sacha, be nice.” I tease at scolding him, run my fingers over his shoulder. I regret asking Aleks to stay for dinner now, but that's okay.

He grins, slams the door before I can say anything further. I wave to Aleks, wave again at the taillights, and then hurry to follow them. They have enough head start that Aleks’ car drives past my motorcycle when I pull into the lot, he's dropped off Sacha and been sent scurrying. I find Sacha waiting alone in the lobby, we take the elevator up to the apartment together. 

A quiet dinner follows, something full of soft smiles from me and sideways acknowledgments from Sacha. The bed ends up the most comfortable spot to sit together, even if it's not the easiest place to get his leg elevated. Sacha laughs when I point out his hurt ankle entitles him to be lazy. The movie I put on for background fodder gets ignored entirely after I give him a heated demonstration of what I mean. I'm careful not to hurt him, excruciatingly cautious about jostling his leg, even as I pull his hair and moan pleadingly for more. Desperation drives me, desire overwhelms me, the make up sex alone is worth the torment of getting berated in front of Sacha's doctor. 

Later we lie together in a breathless tangle. Heavy satisfaction pulls a sigh from the limp flop of Sacha beneath me. Eventually I pause the movie, help Sacha get a quick shower managed. He gets put together for bed even though it's still early and takes a sleeping pill, he's ready to be done with the day. I decide to restart the movie since I almost immediately started kissing and flirting with Sacha. 

As I play my fingers through Sacha's hair, I think of what i'll write for the day in my journal. I wonder what I'll do tomorrow at work about the unknown corrections I promised to make. Slow, steady breaths work a gentle rhythm of Sacha either falling asleep or already asleep, possibly somewhere in between. I hope he's resting, I hope he's sleeping easily and without nightmares, no more trouble for the day.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Cain POV)

I like Fridays, they’re great, one of my favorite days for lots of reasons. Fridays I'm feeling determined and confident, ready for the weekend instead of just the week to end. I look forward to Fridays. Usually start them nice, wake up with Ethan’s slow, easy jazz alarm whispering at him to get the fuck out of bed. Normally he’s up without me even noticing, most days I don’t even hear his alarm. Fridays he’ll hit snooze, burrow closer, mumble at me for five more minutes like I’m in charge of getting his ass up. 

Nice start on Friday because Thursdays end with Beth slapping sense into me, forcing me to get my shit together. Sends me off with something to tell Ethan at home if I can wait, lets me waste her time otherwise if I can’t. Whatever I end up having to say usually makes Ethan cry himself slutty, gets him determined to prove all the soft, stupid shit he’s sobbing. Thursday nights can be a mess, but they’re all right, they end nice.

None of it’s that bad, it’s really not, none of it’s awful. My whole routine’s not bad. Beth and Ethan helped me put it together, they help me keep it together, and Aleks chips in when and where he can. It’s not much of a routine, but it’s the one I got. Monday, session and spending the day at home feeling sorry for myself. Tuesday, all my out of the house shit. Wednesdays suck, just got to get through them. Thursday, session again and getting my shit together. Friday, store run and date night. Saturday, wildcard, I like Saturdays. Sunday, early store run and breakfast in bed, lazy cleaning or whatever else to get ready for Monday.

Same basic stuff each week, keeps me on track, gives me shit to do. I got the same stupid, worthless goal each day of making it to tomorrow, takes all my fucking energy and effort sometimes to manage it. But I’ve almost got a year under me, I’ve done better than I thought I would at this. I can do a month laid up resting, or maybe I can’t, but I’m going to try.

I stand at the bathroom sink brushing my teeth, glaring at the dumbass in the mirror who thinks I can’t do this. I’ll prove him wrong, fuck that loser, I can do this. I got this. Beth helped me break it down, got me thinking about it the right way. Seven more sessions with her, and I’m at the four week mark. Today’s day one of waiting, and on day twenty-seven the doctor looks at my ankle to tell me how much longer I’m fucked. I can do twenty-seven days, that’s not so many, that’s not so bad. I’ve done harder time.

From the shower comes Ethan’s voice, drifting and soft. He’s still lathering everywhere, smelling up the room with damp clouds. “Are you driving me to work?”

I run the sink, spit minty green foam until I can answer him. “Yeah, I’ll drive you.”

“Thanks.”

He rinses, finishes, turns off the water, steps out dripping since he’s in a hurry. Too much snooze this morning even though I called it early, went to bed before nine. He probably stayed up late thinking, worrying, whatever the fuck he does while I’m out.

He goes past in half a towel, mostly just clean, wet skin. Starts asking before he’s even looked -- “Have you seen my blue shirt?”

Dumbass owns at least twenty blue shirts. “Check the hamper.”

Ethan reappears tugging into something white with stripes the same color as his eyes. “Thanks.”

He hovers, fussing at the buttons on his shirt like they suddenly became complicated. I might make him late for work he’s not in pants quicker. He glances at where I’m leaned into the sink, flashes me a smile when he’s caught worrying for no reason. To put him at ease I let him wrangle me into clothes first before he polishes up pretty.  

I keep an eye on the clock for him, since he’s rushing around. He’s usually late on Fridays, but this isn’t one the days I pull him back into bed to make him even later. I’m not doing that today, I’m doing something else, something new. To be determined, I’m working on it, this is only day one of whatever the fuck I’m doing next. Something new since I hate the old stuff. I need to switch brands, do more wildcards, take risks, be okay fucking up little stuff, stop feeling sorry for myself, start finding things I like about my not-so-bad life. I can do that, I got this.

Out at the car Ethan comes over to help, but I wave him off. If I can’t get into the driver’s seat by myself, fuck it, I’m going back inside. After a second of hovering, he meanders into the passenger seat at about the same pace it takes me to do the same on my side.

Ethan dodges before I smack him in the face getting the crutches out of my way. He’s smiling, probably realized there’s nothing to worry about. I only need one leg to drive, bad leg can do its own thing. “Got it?”

“Yeah.” I shove the crutches into the narrow backseat. Something plastic and boxy absorbs the hit. I turn to look. Microwave popcorn from the store, tied up in a bag. Ethan picked up my car, makes sense he talked to the manager. I shouldn’t be surprised.

Ethan catches me staring and shrugs. “He said it was fine.”

“Huh.” I wonder what the fuck else the store manager said, but I’m not asking Ethan to repeat it. Probably best I don’t know.

I swing out of my parking spot, nice and easy, checking my mirrors, focused. I’m done forever the day I fuck up driving with Ethan in the car. Makes him nervous as hell to see me at the wheel. Don’t blame him, he’s the navigator, he knows I’m shit at this even on my best days.

When I look at him, Ethan bats something Friday-ish at me, low eyes and flirty smile. “Movie in bed tonight?”

“Yeah, maybe.” I like thinking of options for date night. It’s what makes Fridays great. “Maybe drinks on the balcony.”

“Oh, that sounds fun.”

Ethan smiles, but I bet he’s thinking how we did champagne on the hotel balcony last Friday, and Friday before that was getting hitched, going out for drinks afterward. It’s usually only every other week I get a bottle of wine for date night. Ethan’s not much on drinking, even less on watching me drink.  

“We could do a walk, weather’s supposed to be nice.”

Silence from Ethan’s half of the car and a frozen expression on his face let me know what a dumbass fucking thing I just said. I decide to ignore it, keep going. Half the fun of Friday is thinking of stuff to do later.

“Or go out,” I say. “Make some other asshole cook for a change.”

“Mmhm, maybe.”

He doesn’t want to, not with fresh medical bills looming. I know that, I’m just trying to think of shit I can actually manage with my leg. Everything else I’m thinking requires being up, walking around, fuck these crutches. Can’t take him to look at pretty pictures on walls, sculptures in gardens, can’t take him to play pool at the bar, can’t ride behind him on the bike racing around the hills. Seeing a movie in theaters is expensive compared to seeing one at home, so is eating out, same as buying shit we don’t need.

“Could do the arcade machines at the theater.” I got enough cash for that. “People-watch at the mall.” Nice benches there, fountain to look at, good place to sit.

“Oh. Oh, yeah. We could.”

“Yeah.” I’ll give him a pass on sounding surprised considering what shit I’m scraping up off the bottom of the barrel. “Or we could go look at cars.”

We don’t need a car, I got mine, he’s got his bike, we’re doing fine, but I like going to look anyway, I like thinking we might upgrade. I like making the sales guy nervous, make him think he’s got to impress Ethan to get a big sale. Sometimes I talk everyone into a scheme that involves Ethan test driving something fast and impractical for no reason other than I like watching him do it.

“Mmn, maybe.” Fingers skip along my hand. “That could be fun.”

Almost anything I suggest on Friday morning gets tentative approval. I could be over here suggesting strip clubs and drag racing, he’d still be humming along. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll think of something fun.”

“Okay.” Ethan smiles, big and glowing. He leans to look at his office building coming into view. “Do you want to meet for lunch?”

Usually do on Fridays. I know I told Beth I wanted a new routine, but I like Fridays. No point changing the stuff I like. “Yup. Let’s do lunch.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you out front?” Ethan glances over with another pretty smile.

“Yeah, I’ll call.” I check the clock, pleased as punch I managed to get him here on time despite the late start. Friday luck, definitely, I bet if this was Wednesday again I’d have blown a tire or hit every red light on the way. Instead I got plenty of time to kiss him, get him humming and flushed, make him murmur my name until I quit. I send him off with a reminder not to be late. He rolls his eyes at me, sends me off with a smile I want to save on my phone for later.

Waiting for Ethan to come back to the car is part of the routine. I know he’s not coming back. He waves at the steps and goes inside, I don’t see him again after that. He never comes back for anything. I make all these other cars go around me like I got some reason sitting here other than waiting for nothing to happen. It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic, and hating my pathetic life is stupid when I’m the one who decides what I do with it.

Car, balcony, apartment, chores, routine, this bullshit I do -- it’s my aquarium. A not-so-bad way to be trapped in one place and tied down, contained, kept under control. I’m not stupid, I know I’m crazy, I know I need help. I know what I’m doing, why I’m doing it. I chose to do this to myself. I picked out the pieces and built this cage I’m stuck in, painted it a pretty color, made it fancy and nice.  

I’m not giving up just because I got hurt, fuck that. Fuck that, no way I’m giving up. I’m tough, I’m strong, sprained ankle’s nothing. I worked hard at this, dammit, this shit wasn’t easy to put together. It’s not easy keeping it together. This cage I built has to hold crazy, fucked up me, a tough, stubborn, strong, bullheaded, dumbass son of a bitch who doesn’t know when to quit.

So, day one, new routine. Fuck waiting. Ethan’s not coming back for shit. I’m going to the store, doing the rest of my Friday, I got hot date tonight. Fuck waiting, I’ll do something. New routine. Today’s going to be great.

Getting my crutches out of the backseat makes me realize just what the fuck is wrong with me. That bag of microwave popcorn is staring me right in the face saying I can’t do the store. Hobbling, leg’s fucked, crutches. I fucked up the store last time, the store manager’s probably inside, shit, he’s probably already seen my car.

Alright, fine. I’m already here, already parked. Might as well go inside. Not sure how I’m going to carry a basket and hobble, but I’ll give it a shot. Getting groceries up from the car later probably won’t happen, not easily, so I’ll get shit that won’t spoil, stuff that’s okay waiting in the trunk for Ethan. That’s a decent plan. I can do the store, no problem. Store’s easy.

Hard as fucking shit to get out of the car. Leg’s fine, getting out’s easier than getting in, just hard anyway. I don’t have to do the store today. We got food to eat, plenty of fucking popcorn at least, other things in the cabinet and fridge. I don’t have to do this. I don’t want to do this. I’m doing it anyway, though, I’m toughing this out.

Automatic doors whoosh a welcome that crawls up my spine. It feels like everyone’s staring thanks to the way I’m clattering and limping. Hobble of shame, I’m here every goddamn Friday at the same time. Been doing this a year. Most the same workers, same store, store used to be easy.

About the time I’ve juggled together basket and crutches, store manager comes looking for me, expression anxious and eager. Shit. I should’ve bailed from the parking lot, should’ve gone to a different store, goddammit, he’s coming up on me fast. No way I can hobble out of here quick enough to avoid --

“Hey, Luis.”

Not nervous-nice so much as just flat-out wary. If I thought clubbing him with a crutch and crawling out of here might help, I’d fucking do it.

Pretty sure that comes across. He stops out of range and dry-washes his hands, real fucking nervous. “Hi, Sacha. How’s the leg?”

That’s a better opener than _why the fuck are you in my store_ , which is what I expected. “Leg’s fine. I sprained my ankle.”

“That’s good. Glad to hear.” He eyes the awkward way I’ve got basket and crutch tangled together. “Need a hand with that?”

“Nah. I got it.”

“That’s good.” He nods, keeps nodding.

I don’t know why he’s looking nervous, why he’s standing there like we got something more to say to each other. I pretend as if the rattling metal sway of my stride is normal, hobble my ass closer to the produce section.

He follows, hovering worse than Ethan. “Say, Sacha. Could I maybe talk to you, a minute…?”

So we’re doing the _get the fuck out of my store_ speech after all, he’s just smart enough not to start it out here in the open. Don’t blame him, that’s fine. I agree and nod, untangle the basket from my arm. I set it on the stack with the others, get my ass turned around.

“Thanks,” he says. “Won’t take but a minute of you time.” Big, relieved smile that I’m making this easy.

I nod again, resigned to letting him have his say before I leave. He put up with a crazy loon wandering around his store for a long time, I’ll give him credit. I was in here at least twice a week, often for hours at a time. Maybe if I try explaining how nice and easy his store is, he’ll reconsider banning me. Maybe I can talk him into letting me in just once a week, and I’ll only stay for an hour. Fridays, I’ll leave it on Friday, find something else to do Sunday morning while Ethan’s asleep.

Store manager takes me to his little office, it’s a lot of awkward sideways hopping to get inside and seated. Easier to stay standing, but I figure I’m less intimidating sitting down. Might make him look less nervous.

“I hate doing this kind of thing,” he says. Apologetic, we’re doing this the nice and easy way. I appreciate that, I’m real glad he’s going to be nice about this. He steps around the desk and picks up a folder. Paperwork’s never a good sign. Shit, I hope he’s not pressing charges.

File folder gets flipped open, sheaf of papers inside all neat and proper. He lays it in front of me. “It’s the insurance, you understand. If it were just up to me, I’d take a handshake and your word on it.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

He’s being nice, but he’s serious about not wanting me back in here if I gotta sign something. But I get it, I’m not upset with him, he’s got a store to run, customers he wants to keep safe, workers he needs to protect, he’s just doing his job. I’m a liability, I get that, it’s right here at the top of the page in big letters. I run my eyes over the rest of the legal jargon like I got any fucking chance of understanding it.

“This is a waiver?”

He nods. “Standard stuff. Just says the store’s not at fault, you don’t plan on suing. You can take it home and have your lawyer look it over, if you need.”

Sure thing, I got one in my cabinets next to the salt and pepper. “Nah, it’s fine. I’ll sign.”

He hands me a pen, points at the lines where my scrawled name goes, has me initial a few paragraphs. I’ll sign whatever the fuck he wants to avoid getting banned from the store. I’m fine going on record to say this was my own damn fault. I know I was watching my feet instead of where I was going.

“Thanks, Sacha.” More relieved smiling and a handshake, once I’ve signed. “I appreciate this.”

“I appreciate you not kicking me out of the store,” I say. “I figured you’d have a wanted poster up with my name on it.”

“Not quite.” He grins, nothing nervous between us now that he knows he’s not facing a lawsuit and I know I’m not getting kicked out. He follows me all the way to the front of the store again, watches me start juggling the basket. Offers with a smile, “I can pull one of the motorized carts around for you.”

Gut instinct is he can to go to hell, I’m not puttering my way through the store like that. But then I think of how I’ve seen old ladies creak around in the motorized carts. I sometimes hand them stuff off shelves. Spent an hour one Friday just following someone’s grandma around shoving shit in the cart for her, listening to stories about her cats and grandkids.

“Yeah. Yeah, all right. Sure. That’d probably be easier.”

He unlocks one of the carts and brings it over. Looking at it I already regret my decision, but I remember Ethan hauling all our luggage at the airport, trying to drag me along, how I turned down a wheelchair that would’ve made things easy for him. Last thing I need is another fall, something going wrong. I’m safer sitting my ass in this cart. Might even be fun, never rode in one before.

“I can hold your crutches at the register.” He takes them from me, once I’m seated. “Sound good?”

“Yeah, all right. Thanks.”

I wish this thing accelerated faster. I mean, I get why it doesn’t, can’t have little old ladies popping wheelies, drag racing, careening into displays. But, puttering forward with the store manager watching? That’s clenched-jaw levels of not thinking about how fucking dumb I look.

Once I’m in the aisles it’s alright, it’s easy, store’s nice and quiet like usual. Beeping like a forklift to inch backward ends up being pretty funny. Everyone out of my fucking way, I’m reversing for a better look at this laundry soap. I’m a little tempted to do time trials around the store, see how fast I can get this cart to corner. I better not push my luck, even if it’s Friday.

I start filling up the metal basket with essentials and staples, things we need. We’re low on milk, but I can’t carry milk into the apartment, can’t leave milk in my trunk all day. Although thinking about it, cold milk’s not the only type, I’ve seen milk that sits on the shelf, comes in a cardboard carton, lasts for months so long as you don’t open it. Says so right on the box. Ethan can have cereal tomorrow for breakfast, put milk in his coffee. I bet he thought I wouldn’t do the store today, I bet he thought I didn’t know about boxed-milk. Well I’m doing the store, I’m getting milk, this shit’s easy. I got this.

Sometimes I do the self-check, scan my own shit and shove it in bags. Usually I like making small talk with the cashier instead. Just depends on the day, if I’m in a hurry, if I recognize the person working, whatever.

When I scoot into line, the store manager comes wandering over to intercept. “Sacha, I’ll take you on five.” Holding my crutches, gesturing the way, big smile.

He starts unloading the basket once I’m there, we chat about stupid shit like normal. He scans a coupon out of the flyer for me, I swipe the credit card I use for groceries and gas. Store manager carries everything out to my car, puts it in the trunk for me. Store’s real fucking easy with the red carpet treatment. I ought to fall more places, scare lawsuits into everyone so I’m not the most nervous motherfucker in the room for once.

Rest of the day ends up more of the same, everything going great for me like usual on Friday. I go home, fuck around with the cat, text Aleks back and forth about ideas for date night while putting lunch together. I call Ethan on the way, pick him up out front when I get there. Nice weather, we’d probably walk somewhere if not for the crutches, but that’s all right. Eating picnic lunch in my car’s just as nice.

Ethan asks about date night, about what else I’ve thought about doing. Talking at lunch over our plans for later is part of the routine, part of the Friday stuff I like. I like thinking up ideas, but I bet we’ll do a movie in bed tonight, fuck the complicated shit I’ve been suggesting. Ethan’s had a long day, long week, he works hard, I get that. End of day, end of the week, he just wants to go home, relax, not have to worry about anything.

Going out somewhere will make him worry, either because we’re spending money or I’m there, I might fuck something up, something might go wrong. Taking me anywhere means he’s at work again, can’t relax. Movie in bed, though, Ethan doesn’t have to worry about shit except keeping his eyes open, barely manages even that sometimes he’s so tired. Being at home means hardly anything’s going to go wrong for me, home’s the safest place for me, I know that. I know Ethan likes seeing me pace around in my cage, he likes knowing I’m somewhere safe waiting for him.

Parking lot’s not far, but I drive him to the front doors anyway. He hops out, sticks around to ask dumb questions like usual. I don’t mind, I know why he asks me this stuff. It’s part of the routine.

“I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah, I’ll pick you up at five.”

I can always say no, always bail, if I don’t show up at five he’ll get a ride home, but if I keep saying I’ll do it, I’ll work harder at making sure it happens. 

“Okay. I’ll be out front.” 

This hot piece of mine, he’s great. Half the fun on Friday is thinking what I might do with him, what we might do together, what kind of dates I wish we could do more often. I like taking him places, like going places with him. Like being with him, spending time with him, watching him laugh and unwind, enjoy himself, stop worrying and relax.

“See you soon,” I tell him. Favorite way to say goodbye, lets him know I’m coming back, makes him happy if I say _soon_ and not _later_. I like making him happy. I like seeing him smile. 

Beautiful smile, one arm resting across the open window as he leans inside. Breeze tugging at his hair, sunshine setting all the gold fluff into glow and making his cheeks rosy warm. Picture perfect, like always. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Abel POV)

“We seeing a movie?”

Sacha, at the sink, almost incoherent around his toothbrush. He runs the sink to spit and rinse. Sometimes I’ll answer him, sometimes I’ll make him repeat it without the toothpaste garbling his words. He knows I’d prefer he not speak with a mouthful of foam.

Today, however, I’m grateful for the extra time to think of my answer. I’m glad he’s at the sink, and I’m in the closet, where he can’t see me frozen and panicking. I canceled plans with Caroline. I assumed he wouldn’t want to go, wouldn’t want to meet anyone new. I’m not sure I realized I was wrong about that until now, this moment, Sacha asking about plans from four days ago, something he dismissed with a lazy, apathetic _k_.

“Hey, Ethan.” Louder, he thinks I didn’t hear him. “Are we seeing a movie today?”

Cotton muffles my voice as I pull into a t-shirt faster. “Yeah!” From the hamper I snag a pair of jeans. Sacha never quite manages to fold and hang clean clothes, but at least he gets them clean.

“Awesome.” He turns off the sink. I hear the rattle of the pill bottle as he picks it up, the shake of it descending into his pocket. “I’ll race you.”

His words are punctuated by the metal tap of the crutches. I’m at the nightstand with my phone before he’s even cleared the bathroom doorway, but I know he means the arcade game at the theater. I glance up from my phone to make sure I didn’t leave anything on the floor while getting dressed, but the carpet’s clear, nothing to trip him, and the cat’s not underfoot for once.

Sacha’s watching me back, bright-eyed and alert, focused. “That Aleks?” He nods at my phone. “I invited him. Dunno if you remember me telling you last night.”

He sways on the crutches, weight braced on his arms and both legs lifted free of the carpet. The dog tags swing from his bare chest like a pendulum. He’s in underwear and jeans, nothing else except all that freshly tanned skin from our week at the beach. I hope he knows I’m only watching closely because he’s shirtless, muscles flexing, denim slung low across his hips. I’m not worried he’ll overbalance and fall, even if it’s possible.

“Um.” I look down at my phone, my apology to Caroline still half-composed. I think to check my messages. Three new ones from Aleks, starting at midnight, all various degrees of warning me about plans being made while I’m sleeping. In Sacha’s defense, he asks and I agree. I perfected humming along with his suggestions too well, I do it in my sleep.

“Oh.” I glance up from my phone and smile my apology. I start to explain, “Actually, Sacha, I --”

He cuts me off with a sharp assertion. “You canceled on Caroline.”

“Wednesday,” I admit. “Before you called. Sorry, I’m texting her now to ask.“

He put it together quickly, he’s firing full-throttle today. He’s alert and high-energy, hyperfocused. He usually is on Saturdays. Sacha loves weekends, aggressively so. He tackles them with everything he’s got. They’re either the best or worst days, an easy victory lap or a spectacular crash-and-burn. I’m not sure yet how today will go down. I’m almost afraid to find out.

“Did you still want Caroline --?”

“Yeah. That’s fine.” A too-big sway carries him into the doorway. He grabs the frame for balance and then keeps going, awkward and ungainly in the narrow hall. With a curious, stretching kind of meow, the cat abandons her watch-post on the dresser to follow him.

Sacha calls over his shoulder, “Invite her if you want. That’s fine.”

I don’t want to, actually, I’m okay leaving plans canceled. Caroline’s okay, I trust her around Sacha, but I’m not sure about her boyfriend. I’ve never met him, neither has Sacha, and meeting new people is always awkward, often difficult, sometimes impossible. I wonder if he’s thinking about that, or if he’s truly indifferent, that he’s just excited to go out and do something regardless of who besides me and Aleks comes along.

I lift my voice to carry. “What time is Aleks coming over?”

“Dunno. Lunch maybe. Whenever his lazy ass gets out of bed.” Sacha’s in the hallway, but I hear his steady, clattering progress. The crutches make it almost too easy to track him through the apartment.

I erase the message to Caroline. I’m anxious enough already at the idea of going out with Sacha’s ankle the way it is, what might happen if something goes wrong for him and he can't get away. The idea of Sacha using crutches after taking his medication is equally worrisome. I don’t want to compound my problems by inviting possible disaster. I’ll ask on Monday about rescheduling, maybe see if Caroline’s okay waiting until after Sacha’s back on his feet to try introducing him to her boyfriend.

I find Sacha and the cat in the kitchen together. Essem’s sitting beside the sink, even though I spent a year attempting to train her otherwise. It worked, I’m pretty sure the spray bottle worked. She stopped trying to jump onto the kitchen counters and dining table, after a brief period of doing it and then running away when caught so I wouldn’t spritz her in the face with water. Sacha moving back in ruined that effort, though.

I tried once to explain about the spray bottle, unwashed paws going from a litter box to food-prep surfaces, but I didn’t make it far into the discussion before surrendering. I won't fight him on anything related to the cat. Essem being on tables and counters puts her closer to him, makes her easier for him to pick up, it’s just not worth it for me to interfere.    

Dry cereal hitting the bottom of ceramic bowls pulls a reluctant reminder from me. “I think we’re out of milk.”

I don’t like to fuss at him when he’s cooking, same as I don’t fuss about what he cooks or the clean laundry perpetually living in a hamper instead of getting put away. I try to enjoy not having to do the household chores, rather than pick apart the way he does them.

“Oh. Yeah.” He glances up with an odd, excited grin. “There’s groceries in the trunk. I got milk.”

I keep my tone gentle, soft, as non-judgmental as possible, like I’m only clarifying and not trying to point out something he needs to remember. “Yesterday?”

“Yeah. You gotta bring them up. Or maybe I could, with like a backpack --”

I’m quick to stop him. “No, I’ll do it. I’ll bring them up.”

He shrugs, pushes Essem’s curious face away from the cereal bowls. She protests with a soft, indigent mew, then close-eyed satisfaction when Sacha runs a hand over her. Essem turns in place with another soft meow, this one curious and friendly, sweetly demanding. He snags her off the counter and into an easy one-armed curl against his chest. The cat becomes a limp, purring flop of silky white fur and big, bright blue eyes for Sacha. Half the time I pick her up, she decides to use my chest as a launchpad to reach a new destination.

I nudge into flip-flops, grab a jacket from the hall closet. I don’t know what to do other than fetch spoiled groceries from the car. Maybe Sacha will realize his mistake once I bring everything up and set it across the counters. It’s incredibly worrisome to me that Sacha left groceries in his trunk overnight and doesn’t seem concerned about it.

I’m not sure what to make of it, what to think, same as I’m not sure how I feel realizing he went to the store yesterday. He usually does on Fridays, in between dropping me off at work and bringing me lunch, but I thought he wouldn’t after what happened. I thought he’d want to avoid it. I suppose what went wrong for him at the store wasn’t as wrong as I what I did to him afterward. That’s cold, meager comfort.

An array of plastic bags and tumbled groceries greets me when I lift open the trunk. Some of the cans rolled loose while Sacha drove, so I collect the strays. I don’t see a gallon of milk, just boxes and cans lumped together, a plastic jug of laundry soap. I loop the handles over my arm and get surprised by the accumulated weight, how it’s nearly too much for me to carry.

I wonder how Sacha managed to get this much to the register and then out to his car. He’s so careful about only buying as much as he can comfortably carry in one trip without straining his leg. I’m really not sure I’ll be able to get everything. He’s stronger than me on the overall, but carrying grocery bags requires the weight go in awkward places. It’s a bulging strain, too many heavy items hitting into my thigh as I shuffle for the lobby. I have to set some of the bags down while waiting for the elevator, set them down again while inside the elevator, drag them outside the door with an exhausted sense of relief.

As I transfer plastic bags from the hall to the entry, I call into the apartment -- “Sacha?”

“Yeah.” A clattering of metal announces he’s on the move. I’m not sure why I called him over, since he can’t carry anything in his hands while using the crutches to walk.

“Sacha, there’s no milk,” I say gently. “Are you sure you bought some?”

“Yup.” He stops on the other side of the kitchen counter, in the open flow where only the transition from tile to carpet defines the space. Grinning like it’s the punchline to a joke he says, “I got milk.”

I flash him a curious look, hopefully not a worried one. I take the first round of groceries into the kitchen, and he hobbles awkwardly to follow. I double-back for the second round while Sacha starts to unpack, since he can stand in place to transfer items from counter to cabinet. Essem joins him, gets her tail in his face like she thinks that’ll help.

“Tada.” He sets something on the counter next to the prepared cereal bowls. “Milk.”

I’m peeking through the bags to check for frozen things, cold things, anything that might have spoiled in the car. I glance up at Sacha and then flick my gaze to what he’s set out on display with so much pride. A small carton of shelf-stable milk, the kind that can sit unopened for months without spoiling. None of what he bought is perishable, all of it completely unharmed by sitting out overnight.

“Oh,” I manage.

His mouth flattens. The joke’s not so funny anymore.

“Sorry.” I try for a smile. “Sorry, Sacha. I thought maybe --”

“Yeah. Yeah, Ethan. I know.” Quiet, accepting, defeated in that way I hate. I know why he does it, but it still hurts to watch him give up without a fight. His eyes slide to the floor, drag along the counter. He looks at whatever’s not me. “It’s fine,” he lies. “I figured you’d be surprised.”

He anticipated a different kind of surprise, though. He thought I’d be happy about his clever problem solving, impressed with him rather than concerned he’d be so incompetent as to buy a bunch of perishables without a way to get them upstairs.

I’m already in trouble, so I might as well dig myself deeper. “Was it the usual store?”

His head nods. He transfers a few more items into the cabinet, slow and careful. Things need stacked and rearranged to fit. Boxed pasta, jars of sauce, canned meat, canned vegetables. I almost expect to see canned cheese and canned bread. No wonder everything was so heavy.

An equally heavy sigh slips from Sacha. He runs his hand over Essem, playfully whisks the long, silky fur of her tail. She turns a tip-toed circle of purring, greets his hand with the smushed smile of her chin. I try not to be jealous of the cat, but it’s hard when she never seems to get in trouble. Nothing she does defeats him like this, deflates him into misery.

“I talked to the store manager about what happened.” Not looking at me, petting the cat with rhythmic insistence, what he says just as steady and soft. Essem’s purr settles into a deep, loud motorcycle-throttle hum under the press of his hand. “It’s fine. We got it worked out. I signed the papers like he wanted, he carried everything to the car for me. It’s fine, Ethan. Store’s fine.”

I gather up the empty shopping bags and shove them into the recycling. One thing he said jumps out at me. I’m two-for-two on wrong assumptions this morning and don’t want a third strike. I try to sound interested, rather than accusing. “What papers?”

“Just papers,” he says. “Legal forms.”

I think of the store manager pulling me into his office on Wednesday, that awkward conversation between us about a lawsuit, before Sacha called me. Someone hit him with a cart, sure, but maybe the floor was slick, maybe it’d been waxed too much. Maybe I’d thought about calling up that manager to politely make enough not-actual-threats that he would agree to pay for the emergency room visit at least. Not a full lawsuit, not a big settlement, just the most recent medical bills, just that small bit of relief.

Something stutters in my chest, a painful squeeze of breathlessness. “You signed?”

Sacha’s head turns. He’s done putting everything away, except for the laundry soap and handful of other items that don’t belong in the kitchen. “Yeah.”

“Did - did you read it, first…?”

Even without his angry huff I know it’s an insulting question. “Yeah, Ethan. It was just a liability waiver. Standard stuff, me taking responsibility for what happened. I’m not suing the guy for something that’s my own damned fault.”

“No, I - I know, but --”

He turns to me more, so we get squared off across the kitchen. Him at the cabinets with Essem poking around wondering why he stopped petting her, me standing adrift by the trash bins.

Sacha scowls, sneers, leans his weight on the crutches and counter alike. “It was my fault, Ethan. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

He usually doesn’t, if he’s feeling anxious, he watches his feet instead to stay focused on moving, he avoids looking at what’s around him so it won’t bother him. I see him do it all the time, I see him walk around shoulders hunched and head low, braced like he’s moving through a storm or a war zone rather than peaceful sidewalks and shops.

“I know. I know, Sacha, but… I wish we could have talked about it.”

Wrong thing to say. I know it at once, soon as I see the furious plunge of his brow and hear the snarled catch of his breath. “Why?” he demands. “You weren’t there, you don’t know what the fuck happened.”

“No, I know, but the store has insurance for a reason. They may have covered the hospital visit. Now we’ll never know. You should have asked me first, Sacha, before signing anything.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

It’s not even nine o’clock, and I’ve got two strikes against me. We haven’t even had breakfast yet, and I’m going to ruin the whole day for us both. I snap at him, huffy and clipped. “Because I pay the bills.”

That’s not the real reason, that’s not why I get jittery and scared hearing Sacha signed something without talking to me first. It’s one of the reasons, of course, our joint finances and joint legal status, all those automatic, irrefusable responsibilities that come with marriage that we didn’t have before as domestic partners, that’s such a better reason and the one I should have said. If I’d cited our marriage as my reason, smiled sweetly and said _because we’re married_   Sacha might have agreed, apologized, puffed up and grinned in that arrogant, prideful way he gets.   

Instead I said the worst possible thing, snapped it at him like reprimanding an unruly child. I know better than to bring up the finances to Sacha, to remind him that I work and he doesn’t. I know better than to remind him of looming medical debt, the careful rotation of credit card balances, the delicate and tricky balance of stretching each paycheck to the next, the fact I do it all without including him and he has no idea it’s happening.

That’s for a variety of reasons. Years of habit, years of necessity, mostly that I don’t especially want him to know I’ve blown through my savings and pulled my retirement fund early. I don’t want him to worry, I don’t want him to feel guilty about it, I don’t mind doing it, I don’t mind being broke. He’s never expressed much interest anyway, and everything’s in my name, the bank account and lease, utility bills, even his car loan is in my name. I’m a co-signer on the credit card he uses to buy groceries and gas, I pay for that along with the rest. Our money is mine, despite our debt being his. There are a lot of reasons, that I pay the bills.

Only one reason, though, so far as Sacha is concerned. Only one reason matters to him. The awkward and terrible reason that Sacha stays home while I work, receives a disability check instead of a paycheck, why we have so much medical debt in the first place. I might as well have walked across the kitchen and slapped him, knocked him down and started kicking. Forget three strikes. I hit a homerun.

The sharp intake of his breath hurts to hear. He goes stiff against the counter, eyes wide, braced into a hard backward lean with the crutches. Behind him Essem trills a plaintive demand. Her tail flicks over his shoulder in a jaunty mockery of the moment. 

Sacha ignores the cat. He stares across the small divide of the kitchen like he has no idea who I am, how I got into this apartment with him. I’m a sudden threat, a potential enemy, something that’s attacked him and hurt him, might do it again if he’s not careful.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” Apology rushes from me in a desperate tangle. I wrench my hands together, poised to rush at him as well, except his braced lean tells me to stay where I am, to stay away. His hurt ankle, the crutches, it’s got him trapped. Bad as this is, it could get worse if I’m not just as careful. “I’m sorry. Sacha, I’m so sorry, I didn’t --”

He cuts me off, sharp and quick. “You meant it.”

“No. No, baby, I didn’t --”

“You meant it.” Rougher, insistent, snarling the hurt at me. He recovers his scowl, shudders in a hard breath. “You meant it, Ethan. You meant it ‘cause it’s true.”

It’s all the more awful he’s right, much as I want to deny it, he’s right. I don’t know what to say, what I can possibly say to undo the horrible thing I already said. Regret thickens my throat, makes each breath heavy. I brush hastily at my cheeks. My trembling fingertips find dry skin. “Sacha, I’m sorry.”

“S’fine.” Head turned aside, glaring at the floor, white knuckled around the handgrip of the crutches. He forces it around a clenched jaw, each word terse and strained like the rest of him. “Ethan, fine. I get it. Next time I’ll ask.”

Everything shimmers. I’m not happy to have won, not happy at all to have beaten him like this. I don’t want a quick, resentful surrender from him. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe he did the right thing, maybe I don’t have a say in this. That poor store manager was genuinely worried Sacha had been hurt and not just because of the legal ramifications.

I know it’s wrong to want to threaten a small business. It’s just a little independent grocery store, not even part of a big chain, this quiet store tucked into a calm residential neighborhood full of easy-going shoppers, so he’s comfortable going while I’m at work. I can’t take that from him, I can’t meddle in stuff like this. This sort of thing, it’s his fight, and he’s the fighter, not me. I know that.

What happened, that fall and him running away, it was something he needed to handle, he took responsibility for the incident and I bet he liked that, I’m sure Sacha was happy to sign the papers. It made him feel good, to go there and face down the awkwardness, take back some measure of control over a situation that got the better of him. He had every right to sign that waiver without talking to me about it first, regardless of who pays the bills and why.

“Sacha --” Nearly as plaintive as the cat, even though I know he hates it when I cry.

“It’s fine.” The rattle of the drawer gives away his slight backward push. There’s nowhere to go, but he tries anyway. He wants out of this, desperately. “It’s fine, Ethan. I get it.”

Essem mews and butts into shoulder, flicks her tail up and turns in place trying to get Sacha to turn around and pay attention to her, but he’s paying attention to me. His wary gaze flicks to where I started to close the gap between us. A single step, but even that’s too much right now.

Carefully I shuffle away from Sacha, until my socks find the transition between tile and carpet. I don’t like the way that makes him relax, even if I’m relieved it does. I see his grip on the crutches ease. His shoulders lower from their defensive hunch once it’s clear the fight’s over, I’m leaving, I’m done kicking him while he’s already down.

I don’t manage anything steady. It’s a tremulous whisper, my cheeks wet as I brush at them. “Okay, Sacha. Okay.”

Sparkling sapphire eyes follow me out, Essem’s seemingly judgmental stare. I hear the metal clack of the crutches as he turns to her, the cat’s perky mew to ask if he’s okay, what happened, why he stopped petting her and became so tense. A loud thrumming purr follows his rough voiced affection, his quiet murmur of her name. I know it's stupid to be jealous, but I am.

I pretend there might be some other reason I go into the office and close the door. Maybe I want to check my email or look at Julie’s presentation notes yet again, like I didn’t look at them enough at work this week. I sit in the desk chair, face the computer, but there’s no point. I end up arms folded on the desk, face pressed into them, muffling the noise since I’m in here to hide.


	14. Chapter 14

“Maybe I’ll get a job.”

From beside me comes the quiet little rasp of Aleks’ reply. Less like I’ve announced something stupid, more like he’s actually interested in whatever bullshit I’m spewing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I shift some, adjust the elevated stretch of my leg. Aleks dragged his laundry basket out here for me, stacked folded clean towels on it to make a makeshift footrest. Good effort on his part, even if we both know I’d be more comfortable inside on the ratty loveseat. It’s this hideous thing, floral patterned, old as dirt, ugly as sin. He found it kicked to the curb by someone sick of looking at it, I helped him drag it home. Took us over an hour of cursing at each other and arguing, but we managed it.

“Yeah,” I say again. “I could get a job.”

“Sure,” he hushes. Aleks’ shoulders lift and lower, the silent addition of _why not?_ or maybe _go for it_. He lifts a beer bottle to his lips and drains the last swallow. I get offered the empty.

I take it from him, start lining things up. “Maybe a job like yours. It can’t be that hard. I can type and click on shit, working on a computer’s easy.” I brace a hand on the arm of the lawnchair, wind back, and hurl the bottle far as I can. Fiery reprimand shoots from my ankle for the jostling, but fuck it. Throwing empties is half the fun of sitting out here drinking.

“You type slow,” Aleks rasps. Direct, blunt, not insulting since it’s the truth. He gets to his feet, stretches with a small contentment. His pale grey eyes track the sailing tumble of the beer bottle. It falls well shy of the tree line. Makes it further than the first one I threw at least.

“Yeah. I know.” I settle back in my chair and pluck my own beer off the ground. If Aleks’ finished off his second bottle already, I’m in the clear for taking down a bit more of my first. Can’t drink as much as I used to, I know that, I gotta take it slow and easy on booze, even if I don’t plan on driving anytime soon.

He hesitates, hovers around for a second, but I lift my hand some, flick my fingers like knocking aside dust. Aleks nods and disappears inside, screen door banging after him. Minute later he’s back with a fresh beer for himself.

Rather than sit, he walks to the edge of shadow from the awning overhead. Stands there looking out at nothing in particular, maybe enjoying the easy quiet between us like always, maybe wondering about me, what the fuck I think I’m doing hogging up his time on a Saturday with this kind of nonsense.

Aleks’ half-dead backyard full of scraggly yellow grass runs a downward slope toward the trees and then stretches forever, rust-colored tree tops and blue sky. Front yard’s about the same, winding dirt drive through skinny, leaf-shedding trees spitting out at a messy gravel turnaround anchored by his shitty trailer and rundown car. Not another soul around for miles out here, just us and the trees.

Not much of a back porch he’s got, just that shade awning, these cheap folding lawn chairs he keeps inside when not in use, but I like sitting out here. Like it almost as much as the balcony, maybe more. Not much of a house he’s got, really, even if it’s a big upgrade from his old flat. Two whole extra bedrooms, fuck if he knows what to do with them, barely has anything to fill the inside of the trailer.

Great view though, all this open sky and swaying autumn tree tops, mottled mix of brown and orange, green and yellow, real pretty view. Nice as looking out at the lake, maybe nicer. No bright building lights blocking the stars, no cars around except ours parked and silent. No firetrucks or ambulances, no kids shrieking, families barbecuing, none of that shit bothering me out here. Nothing except birds chirping, bugs screeching, dogs howling at night, whatever the fuck else colony brats like us can’t figure out.

Sometimes sit with Aleks trying to guess, be an asshole to him and suggest wolves, bears, tigers, shit like that. Claim I know what the fuck I’m talking about, got more years living on Earth than he does. It freaked Aleks out real bad at first, trying to sleep with all the noise, those fucking crickets screaming outside his window. Lots of stuff about living here freaked him out. Idiot nearly set his whole damn house on fire, first time a spider tried shacking up with him.

Aleks glances sideways at me, tips the bottle back to drink. Says too casually, “Could ask for you.”

He’s serious, he’d ask his company about hiring me on, probably lie like crazy about my qualifications, make up some bullshit to make me seem better than I am. He’d put himself out there, vouch for an incompetent, uneducated loon like me. Bet if I got the job he’d help me figure out what the fuck to do, how to keep it. He knows I type slow, read slow, think slow, I’m a total dumbass. He’s always been quicker than me, smarter than me, even back in our Fleet days when I was top shit strutting around the station, living it up on the Sleipnir. Aleks is sharp as fuck, tough as hell, and worked hard to get where he’s at, jumped through a lot of hoops to live on Earth in this worthless shitty trailer with a priceless view.

Said he wanted a change of pace, needed something new, but I’ve got my suspicions why Aleks decided to give up colony life, why he suddenly started showing up to visit me. He’d come sit there in silence with me on bad days, dick around with trying to talk on good days, tell me in raspy whispers stuff neither of us wants repeated. Moment’s long gone to tell him off for it, just gotta pretend like I don’t know why he did it, act like he moved all this way for no reason.

Makes it so I have to look down at the beer in my hand, pick at the damp paper label with my thumbnail. I work the corner loose. “Nah.” Rough, hushed, sounding like one of his whispers. I clear my throat. It doesn’t help soften the frayed burr. “I’d fuck it up and get you fired.”

He shrugs, quick and easy, diffusing the awkwardness with apathy. Aleks returns to the lawn chair, sits there in quiet contentment while I fuck around peeling off the label. Just as easy as when we text to stop talking to him, doesn’t bother Aleks to wait a few seconds or a few hours for a response. Hard as fuck to make silence between us awkward when it’s mostly silence coming out of Aleks anyway.

When he’s done with his third beer, I’ve managed both getting the label picked into shreds and emptying the bottle. We chuck the fresh empties, competing for distance even though he’s going to win easy. I’m shooting from the hip, throwing these damn bottles while sitting on my ass.

Aleks gets to his feet and winds back with everything he’s got, hurls the bottle so hard he knocks himself off balance, nearly face-plants. He straightens hastily and cups a hand to his forehead, gaze intense as he tracks the target. The spinning bottle flies into the trees, hits one. It smashes into a spray of glistening shards.

I whoop a laugh. “Nice one, myshonok.”

A wide grin spreads his mouth, sets his grey eyes into soft sparkle. His laugh’s barely more than air, a softly huffed amusement.

I hand him mine, rather than try tossing it. “Double or nothing,” I tell him.

Aleks takes it from me. He narrows his eyes at the trees, grips the bottle by the neck as he takes aim. As he’s winding back, a beep comes from his pocket. My pocket buzzes at the same time, so no need to guess who the fuck it is texting us. Aleks’ shot goes wild, careens off toward the trees and bounces into the grass well shy of where he was aiming.

Both of us scowl as we dig out our phones. Simultaneous interruption means same message to us both, Ethan’s not trying to get away with asking me something nice and pestering Aleks with what he really wants to know. Instead he sent pure polite bullshit, a desperate ruse to get a polite response back.

_Hey guys, sorry to bother you. Do you have plans for dinner? Just thinking about what I’m doing with my evening. Let me know, thanks!_

Like he’s not really begging me to come home, like he’s not pleading desperately with Aleks to give him a status update. Dumbass navigator gets scared we’re doing something other than drinking and chucking bottles, trashing up Earth to teach it a lesson about not inviting colony brats to the party.

Doesn’t matter how many times he sees me go out the door and then come back, he gets scared I’m not coming back. He gets scared like I’ll start shacking up with Aleks and the spiders, like I’ll ditch Aleks and head off into the woods, like I might be so pissed at him I’d be willing to hassle with the paperwork of a divorce. Like I might be so sick of my pathetic life I’m ready to go, looking for a way out, swapping notes with Aleks on the best way to get it done.  

I look up from my phone screen to find Aleks watching me, poised and ready to start typing. He’s frowning, mouth turned down in an unhappy curve, most his expression tucked behind his bangs. I shake my head some. He nods and tucks his phone away. The folding lawnchair snaps together as he snatches it up, tucks it under his arm. Aleks goes inside.

Rather than sit there poking whatever awkward nonsense out with my slow texting, I tap Ethan’s name and set the phone to my ear.

He answers sounding surprised, sounding so fucking soft it hurts. “Oh, hey. Hi, Sacha.” Tell-tale quiet sniffle, so I bet he’s sitting there with a box of tissues. Bet he sat there weepy-eyed putting that text together, fretting over it, picking apart the words, deleting them and retyping them, whispering it to himself, worrying himself sick with it.

Wildcard Saturday backfired on me, my eager assault on the day exploded in both our faces that morning. I don’t like thinking about it, been sitting here with Aleks going out of my way to think about nearly anything else, but I can’t forget a single thing about the way he looked snapping the truth at me, the way he sounded saying it, just how fucking hard the rug got pulled out from under me. My navigator bringing me under his thumb, telling me the way it’s gotta be, cracking the fucking whip.

Might as well have bent me over and spanked me, and not in a fun way. Cute when he talks back sometimes, like seeing him get tough and feisty, like him getting hot-headed and passionate, like when he lets loose, but fucking hate when it’s not in the fun way. Hate being reminded how fucking worthless I am, how much I need him to help me.  

I’m not stupid, I know Ethan takes care of me. Been taking care of me for a while. Took care of me when I wouldn’t do it for myself, when I couldn’t, when I’d thrown in the towel and given up fighting. I know that, I know how hard he worked to keep me going, how hard he works to keep us going. I know I’m not doing shit to help him, either. Opposite, in fact, I make shit worse. I make everything hard, I fuck up the easiest shit, can’t manage the simplest things.

I don’t know why I made Aleks sit here chatting with me about getting a job when everyone knows I’m just some asshole veteran on disability, can’t be trusted to read legal papers, make decisions. Gotta ask permission first, check in with my navigator, my doctor, someone who isn’t me needs to decide if it’s safe, if it's okay.

I built this cage to keep me trapped, keep me safe, keep Ethan safe, make it so I can be with him and not somewhere with padded walls. I built this cage and gave him the key, so I don’t know why I had to throw such a hissy fit getting reminded of it. Not like Ethan didn’t tell me anything we both didn’t already know. No reason to be a little shit over something I did to myself, something I chose to do.

Nothing but silence from me, making him nervous. “Sacha?” Hushed, hopeful, desperate as his perfectly polite text.

It makes my jaw clench, my eyes sting, turns my throat hot and makes it hard to swallow. No fucking idea why I thought calling him was the right way to do this. “Yeah.”

Essem shouts something at him in the background, I can hear her yowling. Probably trying to ask Ethan where I am, when the fuck I’m getting home, why he’s alone in the apartment. I told her before I left, asked her to look after him for me, but she’s a dumbass. Stupid deaf cat can’t hear a word I say.

“Hey, Sacha. Hi. Um, did you get my message?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? Okay.” He’s forcing brightness into his voice, fucking sunshine and rainbows despite the way he’s been bawling.

Dumbass fucking navigator spent an hour hiding in the office sobbing this morning. I told him through the closed door I was going to Aleks’ place. Fuck seeing a movie, fuck Aleks driving here, fuck hanging out together. Only I didn’t say it like that. I tried saying it nice, thought maybe it’d lure him out of the office, except snarling’s not nice, slamming the front door isn’t nice. Guess me trying to be nice about leaving this morning wasn’t so nice as I wanted.

He’s sounding nice, perfectly pleasant despite the soft sniffling. “Well, I can fix something for myself easy enough, but I thought maybe if you wanted to come here for dinner? There’s ingredients to make a casserole. I can have it ready by the time you get home, if you wanted to eat dinner together? Or I could leave it in the oven to keep warm for you.”

Offering to hide himself in the office again, keep his misery and tears somewhere they won’t bother me, like I don’t know why he disappears in there for hours at a time and comes back out red-faced and sniffling, nose and cheeks cold, lips soft when I kiss him.

Makes it so I have to look at my lap, not even a fucking beer label to pick anymore. Hands empty except for nerves. “Nah. I’ll head that way.”

“Oh? Okay.” Fragile like fine china he asks, “I’ll see you soon?”

Only drank one beer, took me all damn afternoon to do it. “Yeah. I’ll leave soon.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “Okay, Sacha. Thank - okay. Okay.” Barely keeps himself from thanking me, used to thank me way too much for being nice, had to tell him to knock it off. Made me feel too guilty, thinking about the times I’m not nice to him, how not nice things get because of me.

Hang up with Ethan, sit there with my phone looking through the pictures on it. Eventually text Aleks I’m leaving, so he comes outside to help with my crutches, help get the laundry basket footrest out of my way, help me across the tricky gravel, help me into my car. Tell him I’ll see him later, don’t tell him how glad I am he’s just a few hours away and not across the entire goddamn solar system. Pretty sure he knows it, not much of a secret.

He waves me off like he does, same way he comes out to wave hello when he hears my car. Hand up, blank expression, hair hiding his face and silent. Keeps standing there until I lose him in the rearview mirror, until he has to have lost sight of my car through the trees, probably keeps standing there until the engine noise fades, until it’s just birds chirping and peaceful isolation.

Told me he likes it, but I know it’s all he could afford on rich, fancy Earth. It’s just too good here for trash like us, colony brats, washed up old fighters spending our days aiming bottles at trees, fighting the only war we got left to keep going.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Abel POV)

The sudden ringing intrusion is a welcomed one, after sitting head-in-hands at my desk for some unknown length of misery. I lift an unfocused stare at the wood grain to the buzzing, lit-up rectangle of my phone. Sacha calling, but I can guess why Sacha’s calling on a Wednesday afternoon.

I glance to my office door, but it’s still closed. I closed it shortly after receiving the London team’s email. I didn’t want anyone walking past to see me huddled at my desk panicking. I didn’t want my boss swinging by for a quick chat. Bad enough she’s on the CC of this email, but I know there’s a good chance she won’t bother reading it. Not until she realizes what's happened, which will probably be tonight or tomorrow morning.

Specifically once Julie in Sydney wakes up, but that might be after my boss leaves for the day. I hope that’s the case, even if all it does it delay the inevitable. It at least gives me one more day to think of my options, plan for the worse. I keep thinking something’s going to change, that I’ll come up with a solution to get myself out of this. I keep thinking this isn’t real. 

Hastily I snag my phone, take a brief glimpse at the time before answering. “Hey, Sacha.”

“Hey,” he returns. Flat, slow, just as miserable-sounding as I expect for this late in the afternoon. “Are you busy?”

I almost want to laugh. The hysteric urge rises up and gets suppressed with a hard swallow. I struggle to keep my voice smooth and level, normal-sounding, something reassuring for him. “Not really, no. I’m not busy.”

He doesn’t say anything, which gives me a good idea of why he called. I run a hand over my face and lean back some in the chair. I try to push aside thoughts of missed deadlines, terrible technical corrections, manufacturing defects, changed production costs, how utterly doomed I am. I force something bright and cheery. "How are things there?”

For a moment I think he won’t respond, that my open-ended effort at conversation was entirely too vague. I hear him sigh. “Fine. Things are fine.”

“Anything interesting happen?”

“Nah. Nothing interesting,” he says quietly.

A dull hum of sound softens the silence. The cat purring, she's probably curled on Sacha’s chest like usual. They're either in bed, where I last saw them, or stretched across the living room sofa. Either way he’s in the apartment and lying down, resting his ankle, same as he’s been doing for days. Next week, hopefully, after his check-up, maybe then he’ll be off the crutches and back to his normal routine. I know he hasn’t liked being stuck at home, I know he hates not being able to bring me coffee or go anywhere by himself easily.

“How is Essem?” I ask. “Is she there? Tell her I say hello.”

I get a soft chuckle from him. “Dumbass won’t hear it,” he says. All the same I hear him murmur, “Ethan says hi.” The background thrumming gets louder. He’s probably started scratching and rubbing at her, if he wasn’t already.

I can picture the two of them so clearly, imagine this whole cozy domestic scene that I’m missing. It’s been hard, leaving Sacha alone in the apartment when he’s hurt like this, hard like it was in the very beginning, those fragile first few weeks after he came home. I know he’s unhappy being laid up like this because of his ankle, and I wish I could be there to bring him ice packs, food, just be there with him while he’s struggling.

After our fight, after that stupidly cruel thing I said to him about the finances, Sacha has seemed so subdued, so accepting of this fresh misery. I don’t like it, even though it means he’s complied with the doctor’s orders. He’s barely left the house at all. He's let me take the bike to work rather than drop me off in the morning, let me take over difficult chores like taking laundry to the basement and even the easier ones, like making dinner, so it all feels strange and familiar.

I hear Sacha sigh again, softer and heavier. “How’s work?” he asks. More polite than truly curious. We’re just making conversation for the sake of hearing each other’s voices and know it.

“Work’s fine,” I tell him. A blatant lie, because work hasn’t been fine for several days now. Work’s been a slow-building disaster about to come crashing down on me ever since stupid Julie from Sydney asked if I had any questions. “I ate lunch with Caroline and a couple people from the Marketing department. We walked to the deli.”

“What’d you get?”

“Oh, um, half sandwich and a salad. New sandwich,” I say. “Something new on the menu, I think it was supposed to be fancier than a regular turkey sandwich, but honestly it tasted just the same as ever.”

“Well, neat,” he says, flat and empty. “That sounds fun.”

I give him a softly-sighed agreement. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

Conversations like these always remind me of the many times we did this while he was away, how often I would sit in the apartment clutching a box of tissues in my lap while I mumbled nonsense into the phone just to hear him mumble nonsense back. Better than the days he wouldn’t call, at least, or the times I would show up to visit and get turned away.

I should say something else, ask him something bland and neutral to keep this going. I know he doesn’t like being stuck in the apartment like this, I know on Wednesdays it’s hard for him to keep busy. I glance up at the door briefly and then turn my head to look out the window behind my desk. It's a beautiful autumn day outside, bright blue sky and big fluffy clouds. If not for his ankle, I’d be suggesting Sacha go for a walk, or think up some excuse to send him on an errand. Anything to help get him out of the house, keep him busy for a few more hours until I’m home.

I decide to ask, “Anything interesting on TV?”

“Not really,” he says. “I watched a documentary on mining.”

“Oh? What kind?”

“Asteroid mining.”

“Really? Did it mention Wincorp Mining?”

“Yeah, think so.”

“You know, I designed the exhaust system for the latest generation of deep-space combines for them. You might have seen my work, depending on how recent the documentary was.”

“Huh.” His tone perks up some, and I hear a soft scuffle as if he’s shifted the phone. “Let me see if they’re gonna replay it.”

“The combines been in production for a few years now. That exhaust system was one of my first projects as the lead technical designer, actually.”

“Neat,” he says. It sounds less forced, more genuine. Sacha’s normally not this interested in my work, which makes me curious just how much he enjoyed the documentary. I’m sure he first started watching by mistake or without intent. “Yeah, that documentary came out this year,” he says. “They’re replaying it at eight tonight. You wanna watch it?”

“Sure,” I say. “Sure, that sounds fun.”

“Yeah.” He sounds sincere. I think he might be smiling. “Yeah, okay. Let’s do that.”

The light brush of rapping knuckles against the door is the only warning I have before it opens. I jerk my head up, smile dropping in favor of something guilty and chagrined to be caught chit-chatting on my phone while at work. My boss stands in the doorway, frowning in a way that can’t be good. My gaze cuts to my monitor. Right on top, one new email, Julie from Sydney awake and responding several hours before she should be conscious, given the time difference. She needs to cut back on coffee. She needs to get a life and stop ruining mine.

I don’t say goodbye to Sacha. I just jerk the phone away from my ear, shove it into my lap as if to hide the fact it exists. I’m positive my boss knows exactly who she just caught me in here talking to with the door closed. She and I have had enough talks with Human Resources about my situation, about me taking off in the middle of the day and how I leave early more often than not.

“Ethan, could I see you in my office?” she asks. Polite tone, but her brow stays scrunched, lines bracket her mouth. She pushes my door open all the way and then leaves, brisk steps taking her out of sight.

The call to Sacha is still going, but I don’t know what to say to him. I stare at the phone in my lap for a moment before thumbing the call to a close. He knows I’m at work. He knows if I’m busy then he has to wait, has to think of another way to get help. Maybe he can text Aleks some, maybe Aleks is done with his day enough to keep Sacha entertained for a bit longer. Maybe I should put my phone in my desk drawer and go face down my boss.

I don’t want to, nor do I want to read Julie’s email. I’m sure my boss wants to talk to me about this email, though, so I open it. I should at least skim the damning evidence from Julie, even though I’m conscious of the seconds ticking by. I don’t want my boss to think I started talking to Sacha again soon as she turned her back. I don’t want her to think I’m delaying the inevitable, even though I am.

I rise from my desk and take the time to neatly tuck my rolling chair into place. My phone goes into the desk drawer. I should power it off, so if Sacha tries calling back he’ll know right away that I’m too busy to answer, but I don’t think of that until I’m halfway to my boss’s office. 

She’s waiting for me behind her desk, seated and stern. I already know I’m in trouble, even before she reminds me. “Why don’t you close the door,” she says.

One of those quiet tones, because we’re both professionals, and all it does is instantly remind me of all the times I’ve been in trouble before in life. Dr. Warren’s office, Keeler or Cook pulling me aside for something, my own mother’s tight-lipped disapproval and worry. I almost wish my boss would start yelling, order me to run laps, berate me in a straightforward and upfront way. I think it’d be easier to handle than the heavy, suffocating calm that fills the room. 

A tightened knot rises from my stomach to my throat and needs swallowed back down. The air seems thick, choking. She gestures to the little chair in the corner. I drag it over, plunk myself into it at some awkward compromise between in front of her and beside her thanks to the angle of her desk. 

As I sink down into the chair, my heart sinks as well. It drops out of my chest with a heavy certainty, leaves a numb, hollow ruin in its place. I know what she’s going to say. I know what’s happening here. Knowing what’s about to happen doesn’t make it easier to accept, doesn’t make me feel any less panicked. I’m losing my job. I’m getting fired today, right now, in this quiet and ominous room.


End file.
